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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26943115">A Breath of Life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltedFlames/pseuds/MeltedFlames'>MeltedFlames</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon - Book, F/M, GRRM please write this shit so I dont have to ruin it with shitty fics, Gendrya - Freeform, I cant take never getting TWOW or ASOIAF, M/M, Multi, Other, Timeskip, a little angsty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:20:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,586</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26943115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltedFlames/pseuds/MeltedFlames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the events of AFFC/ADWD, a lost daughter of the North returns to Westeros. A deranged, humiliated queen drinks until her decisions seem to create a shadow of sense while the last Targaryen begins her reclamation of her home. An army of the dead march towards the Wall and the best defense is a man who has already known death. Mainly a Gendrya story, but some overall ASOIAF to satisfy the near decade we've racked our brains over what happens next.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arya Stark/Gendry Waters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Arya I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Arya I</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>The air was cold and damp, just as she had remembered.</p><p>Not that Braavos wasn’t cold and damp too, it just had been a different sort of dampness. She breathed it in and a part of her wished it were even colder. This was Winter in the Riverlands - her mother’s Winter.</p><p>Her mare drank softly from a stream. She hadn’t named her. Names ensured attachment, and she knew the auburn stot would ultimately be a means to ensure a few nights of shelter along her journey, or some thick stew to warm her belly once she got further north. Within days, she found herself just saying “Horse,” as if that were a name.</p><p>She was pleasant, at least. She had been patient as Arya’s legs remembered how to grip and ride. It had been ages since she’d even seen a horse, let alone ridden one. The canals of Braavos negated any purpose for the animal. Over time, her arms had become more accustomed to pushing serpent boats through endless canals and dense fog, and her legs forgot their lessons.</p><p>Arya shook the thoughts from her head. There was no point in getting lost in the past. Now she had only been back in Westeros for a few weeks, and each day brought an onslaught of memories. The drizzle grew into true cold rain. She tied a scarf around her head and drew up the hood of the warm cloak she had stolen in her first night on the continent.</p><p>Her coin purse held not half of what it had when she had left Essos. For two months she had done everything she could think of to get back in the good graces of the House of Black and White. It was not enough. She had failed. A handful of iron and the promise to work her way west had earned her passage to Gulltown, and there she traded her square coins for a bag of copper and a few silvers. It was hard to find a ship to take her inland in Winter. Harder still to find one who would let her pay with metal and not flesh. Ultimately, she paid with fish. She managed to wedge into the bottom of a cask of cod on a small buss called <em> Candlelight </em> until she slithered out while they moored in Wickenden. A freezing swim to shore, a change of clothes, and three hot baths at the inn hadn’t fully removed the stench.</p><p>Horse was done drinking, so Arya guided her to where she could better hear the river and mounted. Three days of riding had faded by without more than a few hours’ sleep, and now their rations were getting low. They’d need to stop sooner or later, but the past three inns were burnt to rubble long ago. Some casualty of the War of 5 Kings, or maybe just the petty squabbling of lesser lords.</p><p>Though the golden mane was matted as her fingers worked apart the clumps, it was a considerable improvement to the rug-like texture she’d seen when she’d found Horse in the Saltpans. For a moment, Arya wondered if she’d known Stranger. <em> No.</em></p><p>The sun painted the sky a deep orange that faded to pink and then purple. Violet gave way to real darkness. The moon ought to be a week from full, but it hid behind the clouds like a child to her mother’s skirts.</p><p>Twice her horse nearly tripped over gnarled roots and rocks hidden in the dark. <em> A good way to die</em>, Arya thought bitterly to herself as she realized they’d need to break for the night.</p><p>They stopped beneath a bald ash. The bare branches offered no real cover, but half a mile of soldier pines protected them from the road. She curled up next to Horse’s stomach and breathed in the earthy warmth radiating from beneath her coat.</p><p>That night her wolf dreams were stronger.</p><p>The moment she slipped into sleep, her nostrils stung with the refreshing metallic scent of fear. Soon she tasted fresh blood. Her pack had brought down two massive elk. She ate first, as she always did, gorging herself on meat and savoring the taste as her teeth made easy work of sinew. Elk was much better than man. Later they found a grove to explore and watched as the smaller wolves drove rabbits from their burrows. The meat in her belly thickened her blood and she curled up next to her siblings under a half-frozen, half-rotten ironwood. One licked her muzzle and the other rested a leg over her haunch. Even as a wolf, sleep was comforting.</p><p>She was a woman again as dawn’s first light turned the sky from black to blue. The rain had let up, but its absence brought a harsh chill. Horse was warm as she pet her awake. She heaved a disgruntled sigh at the disturbance, and her breath formed a cloud that rose high into the cold air and spread like oil on water. Arya shook out the green wool blanket they had laid on and watched as the short red hairs rained down and gathered on the ground like tiny pine needles. She folded it twice and rolled it tightly, then bound it with a bundle of hemp rope she had taken from <em> Candlelight. </em>Needle fit perfectly in the center of the roll.</p><p>It was absurd to still have the sword, she knew. It was barely longer than her forearm and might as well have been a thin poniard. Still, it was all she had left of who she used to be. <em>Who I still am</em>, she caught herself. Needle had been her father’s agreement to let her learn swordplay. Needle was Syrio Forel telling her that she was worse than the worst fool he had ever trained. Needle was Sansa’s ridiculous white dress that she had stained with that blood orange in King’s Landing. Needle was Robb and her mother, back before the Freys’ betrayal. It was the only thing she’d had when she left the Faceless Men and the only thing she needed now.</p><p>She got herself back onto Horse and nudged her along. It didn’t take long for the rhythm of the trot to weigh Arya’s eyelids. They followed the sound of the river away from the rising sun, through the skeletons of a hundred trees. She was so tired, and the horse’s hooves crunched through the frost in a song that lulled her to a deep sleep. This time, her mind remained human.</p><p>A screeching hawk overhead startled her awake. Horse had gone too close to the river - it was close enough to see now. Wisps of steam curled up like fingers reaching through the early morning mist to touch the sky. The hawk swooped down and skimmed the fast-flowing water. Nothing. Again she dove, her sharp talons glinting in the light. Still nothing. It seemed they weren’t the only ones with lousy hunting.</p><p>Arya steered Horse back behind the trees. A massive black log lay to their right. The rotted leaves below seemed to suggest it was an oak that had fallen long ago. Its broken branches jutted up into the air like the massive spines she had found in the bowels of the Red Keep.</p><p>Supposedly, dragons lived amongst them again. She hadn’t seen one, but you couldn’t go fifty feet in Essos without hearing of the Dragon Queen - a daughter of the Mad King who had freed slaves and hatched her own living sigil. Some claimed  she birthed them herself; others said she was as winged and scaled as her namesake. It was said her most trusted court included a twisted monkey and a fat old bear, and that she took a new lover each hour. If even half of it was true, Arya hoped to meet her one day. Alas, she couldn’t quite figure out where the queen had gone. All she knew was that the last Targaryen had finally left Slaver’s Bay. An old woman with a mangled back and a Ghiscari accent was certain she was headed to Volantis next to free their enslaved. There were five for every free man, and there were more than a million of those, or so Maester Luwin had told her long ago. Five million slaves seemed like a lot to Arya, but even one was too many. Word on her journey from Braavos was that the dragon had gone to reclaim her throne in Westeros, yet no one on the continent mentioned her.</p><p>The Lannisters were still in power here, that much she knew for certain. Everyone said <em> that </em> queen was as fat and sotted as her deceased husband, and some claimed she had been marched naked through the streets. That seemed a tale too good to be true. Only one of her bastard offspring remained - the boy Bran had practiced with in Winterfell, Tommen. According to the captain of the galleon to Gulltown, he only emerged for rare addresses and otherwise kept hidden. More than half a decade had passed since Arya had looked upon that cunt’s treacherous face, but she still saw her green eyes and those stupid golden curls piled high atop her head. One day she would see her blue and lifeless. One day soon.</p><p>The sun was high overhead when she dismounted again to refill her waterskin in the river and piss behind the trees. They were down to a small bag of oats for Horse and a shriveled apple for her. She had tried thrice in the days before to catch a rabbit or maybe some fish, but nothing was fruitful. Now hunger clawed at her stomach. They needed an inn.</p><p>The air was warmer now that the mist had lifted. Moisture here clung differently than it had in Braavos. It wrapped around her like a second cloak, working its way through the seams and outer leathers into her linen smallclothes and the hair braided beneath her kerchief. In Braavos the fog settled like smoke, never quite ready to lift. It respected garment boundaries, but worked its way into softer fabrics until everything smelled like the tombs of Winterfell - cold and stale with a hint of rot.</p><p>But this was not Braavos.</p><p>There was no reason to relive that place. She could never return, not without a death wish. Years of training and she still fell for the obvious trap. Dozens of successful lives taken for the Many-Faced God, and what did she have to show for it?</p><p>“You will never again use our ways,” the Kindly Man had told her as the Waif burned her clothing and sent her into the streets. She had been tempted to try it, but something in his tone told her it wasn’t wise. There were other lessons she would always retain - the identification (and, more importantly, use) of poisons, how to blend in anywhere, three tongues of Essos and a dozen accents from both continents, plenty of combat skills.</p><p>How could she have been such a fool? And how could they not see her potential despite the mistake? She had learned in nearly 4 years what took others an entire decade.</p><p>Arya sighed and unfurled her hand from the horse’s rough mane.</p><p>The next few hours were a good time to work on remembering her former lessons. Tears of Lys - clear, used to make one shit themselves to death; best masked in undercooked meat for an obvious excuse. Archersbane - made from one part concentrated nightshade, three parts yarrow, two parts water, and pestled coltsfoot; slowly dissolves muscle function and vision; best masked in herbal teas; must be given repeatedly for three weeks to make the damage permanent. Cow’s tongue - not actually made with cow at all, but a healing blend of baby’s breath, mint, primrose, and mullein; good for topical application to friction burns and shallow cuts.</p><p>Her mind ran through the standard list easily enough. But what was the name of the combination of poppy’s milk, perilla, burdock, and walnut shell? A few drops in wine or tea could withdraw poisons, but a few more turned the body black from the inside out. It started with an M… or maybe it just had an M in it? How much more would she lose the farther she traveled from Braavos?</p><p>As the sun began its slow descent ahead of them, Arya thought she saw something familiar. A massive boulder with a splotch of lichen nearly a foot across towered to the south. Some other sort of thing had grown within it, causing a white streak that reminded her of a vein</p><p>This was where she realized the Hound was dying.</p><p>By the time they passed this rock, he was beginning to feel the effects of his wounds and he had nearly fallen from his horse twice. That meant that old inn where she had killed the Tickler wasn’t far. It was their best bet.</p><p>Surely no one there would remember her. She had been a child then - scrawny and filthy, with the shaggy hair and stained rags of a boy. Now she was a woman grown. Her hair reached her shoulders, and it was darker this deep into Winter; her clothing was simple but did nothing to hide her sex. The leggings and jerkin had been intended for a man, and fit uncomfortably tightly around the places her body curved where men’s did not. A dark blue kerchief and grey woolen cloak hid her shape somewhat, but no disguise would convince anyone scrupulous that she was male. Not when the only face she could wear was her own.</p><p>Regardless, no one would recognize her. The serving wenches who had been there that day were probably hanged or gutted by now, and Arya Stark had been dead to Westeros for half a decade. She would keep it that way.</p><p>She didn’t pull back when the horse headed towards the road. There was still a good section of blue sky between the sun and the earth - they should have four or five hours until dark.</p><p>The road was more treacherous than the woods. Puddles half a foot deep threatened to cripple Horse, and she swore she heard a wolf’s howl from across the forest. Wolves didn’t scare her, but the stot froze up and shuddered. Arya nudged her along with a gentle press of her feet. “You’re alright,” she whispered into her mane.</p><p>They’d need no small amount of supplies at the inn. It would be best if Horse could rest in real hay and feast on oats and grain for a night. Arya needed less - maybe a bowl of stew and some mulled wine to keep her insides warm. Did the rooms here lock? She hadn’t actually seen the beds. The floor would be fine for her, and her cloak would keep her from freezing. She supposed they’d have a real fire. She hadn’t since the inn over the tavern in Wickenden. Cold was better than dead, and smoke would draw attention.</p><p>She could get some apples and a wheel of hard cheese for the rest of the journey. Maybe they’d give her some ground corn or rice - something she could add water to to fill her belly when the road got bare further north. If she was lucky, rum. Many inns doubled as taverns, and Harwin had always said rum was good to keep warm if you had nothing better.</p><p>Shadows stretched out long behind them as they traveled. The sun shone its golden light straight into her eyes and no amount of squinting made the road more visible. Only the black trees in her periphery told her that they hadn’t left the road.</p><p>This was the second day without any sign of another person. She ought to be surprised, but people always spoke of how dangerous the roads were at this point of Winter. Bandits seemed like the obvious harm as a child, but now she could see the true threats - a broken leg from slippery morning ice, the freezing winds, nothing to hunt for leagues. How much worse would it be once she crossed the Neck?</p><p>The sun finally sank below the hills, turning the sky the color of jewelweed. The ache in her back had grown with each hour, and now no amount of stretching or twisting helped. They <em> must </em> be close. Something was in the distance, some sort of snake-like indentation in the hills. The kingsroad.</p><p>The river’s song grew as they trotted. A rush of water charging over rock and sand. Horse was slowing, but Arya patted her gently. “Almost there, girl.”</p><p>And then they were. The Ruby Ford roared from days of rain, and voices broke through the sound. Loud, chaotic voices. Not a fight; not even a specific person. It grew louder still. The din reminded her of a farm, or mayhaps one of the orphanages along the Purple Harbor. The closer she got, the brighter the flickering of fire through the thick windows.</p><p>Arya dismounted and tied Horse to one of the three splintered posts to finish the oats. She’d earned every last one.</p><p>The door was lighter than she remembered. Was it still green and chipped? It was hard to tell at this hour. She entered quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself.</p><p>A small child as naked as his name day ran past her as soon as she opened the door.</p><p>There were children everywhere. Standing on the tables, shouting, wrestling on the filthy wooden floorboards. A baby wailed in the arms of a brother or cousin no older than five. Two boys tousled an older girl’s snarled red curls. An aged shaggy brown dog with a salted snout slept as tiny hands poked at it.</p><p>It would be easy to avoid attention in this havoc.</p><p>The inn looked suitable for her purposes. The walls were sanded and painted with thick coats the color of old bone. Blood and food had been smeared along a few sections, and other parts were so worn that the grain of the wood was visible. Wooden benches and stools stood along the tables. Most were uneven. Two stone hearths housed fires so massive that Arya wondered how many children had stumbled to their crisp deaths.</p><p>There were a few adults, mostly in the corners. An old man sat cloaked in the only comfortable-looking chair. He warmed his withered hand inches from the larger fire. A thin woman in a threadbare brown dress wiped down a table. The proprietor, presumably. Two men sat speaking on a bench by the stairs. One had a sharp chin and mousy brown hair. The other….</p><p>No. That wasn’t possible.</p><p>She studied his face, sure she was wrong. A broad, defined chin. High cheekbones. Hair as black as wet charcoal. Eyes the color of the sea at midday. Eyes that were looking at her. <em> Fuck</em>.</p><p>This was stupid. Now what would she do? Her heart beat faster as she tightened her hood and hurried past the gaggle of children blocking the door. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. No one she knew was supposed to be there. Hell, she wasn’t going to reveal herself to anyone but Jon once she got to the Wall.</p><p>She hadn’t even gotten to Horse before the door smashed open.</p><p>“Arya.” His voice was deeper now. Much deeper.</p><p>She kept walking.</p><p>The horse paid her no mind as she enjoyed her oats. Gods be damned. Weren’t they easily startled? Shouldn’t she sense the immediacy?</p><p>“Arya,” he repeated. The frayed reins stayed stubbornly tied as she tried twice to get them off the damn post. Horse would need to eat on the road. A hand on her shoulder turned her body, and for some reason she didn’t go for one of her knives.</p><p>He was taller than he had been when she’d last seen him, and much broader. </p><p>“You’re alive.” She avoided eye contact. There was no time for distractions from her plan.</p><p>Gendry smelled exactly the way he had in her dreams as he crushed her against him. His arms let go the moment she pushed away.</p><p>“What, did you rattle your tongue off at the wrong person and get it torn out?” She almost laughed at that, but swallowed it down.</p><p>His hand dropped from her shoulder. She looked at his face again and saw something else. Disappointment.</p><p>“It’s the only inn for leagues,” she finally said. “I just needed somewhere to let the horse rest.” Horse scoffed as if she had understood and disapproved of the excuse.</p><p>“I suppose you’ll be expecting some lordly featherbeds,” he said as he stepped back. “We have a few.” His hair was long now, his face clean shaven.</p><p>“We?” Did he own this place? His skin was still smooth and young as he ignored the question. “And straw is fine. Or a floor. Maybe one of those tables if you can get one out from under the bairns.”</p><p>“Are you stopping or not?” She had irritated him, that much was clear. Her stomach grumbled loud enough for both of them to hear. “Is there food?”</p><p>“Marlyn’s made some trout stew.” Trout stew sounded good and warm. Her gut twisted painfully at the thought of sweet fish meltingon her tongue. A hot meal was reasonable, at least.</p><p>“That your wife?” Gendry laughed. It reminded her of something she had heard long ago. Not his younger laughter, but the amusement of someone else entirely. She couldn’t quite place it. His teeth were straight and white; none were missing.</p><p>“Marlyn is a man. He married Jeyne, the innkeep.” He looked her over, and his face softened. “You’re really alive.”</p><p>Arya could feel herself regressing. Some part of her felt tight when she thought of the way she ignored him a moment earlier. “Of course I am.” He embraced her again. That’s what it was, an embrace. When was the last? Maybe Isabel, the kind courtesan at the Black Pearl who had taught her how to read men and distract them with a swing of the hips. Where was she now? Likely luring some bravo to spend another coin by adding wine to his hour with her.</p><p>She let it happen this time, and even returned the gesture. Her face pressed against his sternum. He must be at six and a half feet tall. <em> Ritmore </em>. That was the name of the concoction she couldn’t remember earlier. A useless thought. The moment shattered the second a child ran by and started prodding Horse. “Whoa,” the girl called in a tiny voice. Arya stepped back and looked at her.</p><p>“We’d better put your horse away. The wolves have been on the prowl of late.” Arya nodded and led her by the reins to a dilapidated shack of splintered wood. Pine, by the smell of it. This would do nothing to stop wolves, but it might dissuade another guest from taking her. She patted Horse’s grooved head and untied her things. Needle fell from its hiding place within the blanket and Gendry breathed out loudly when she caught it. “You still have that thing? I thought-”</p><p>“Castle-forged steel,” she interrupted with a forced grin. She wouldn’t dwell upon where it had been.</p><p>“If you stay more than a few days, I can make something better-sized.”</p><p>It was an outrageous offer. “There’s nothing wrong with Needle.” Her voice came out higher than she’d meant it to. How were they were right back to how they’d been when she sprinted past Harwin out of that stable? Gendry chuckled at her defensiveness.</p><p>Maybe Horse ought to get more than one night to recover from their long ride. She could give her a few days to put on enough meat to get them though the journey north.</p></div></div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: Well, well, well. After more than a year without writing anything but work-related bores, I’m so excited to finally get to this fic. I wanted to reread the series after my last story, which was more show-based. It had been over 10 years! So many small details jumped out at me that I hadn’t seen before.</p><p>It's been a while since I've written anything fictional, so please excuse my rustiness. I wrote this quickly and was too excited to do more than a basic proofread. I hope future chapters are less repetitive and more enthralling.</p><p>I need to warn that this story will be, well, not unlike the books in terms of questionable content. (It will be very unlike the books in terms of GRRM’s writing prowess. Let’s be real, this is fanfiction.) There will be swearing, disturbing imagery, major character deaths, sex, and lots of violence. I don’t want to add a specific trigger warning to the chapters to avoid spoiling their content, but please take care of yourself if something feels hard to read. </p><p>I won’t be updating this as often as I did my last story, mostly because I have a lot less time now. But I promise to finish it. Really, I do. It will be long (and that’s saying something since the last one was nearly 110,000 words...) but the chapters will generally be shorter. We’ll get more POVs and a broader storyline. At its core, this is a Gendrya story, but I will attempt to explore some other components of the series.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Samwell I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam takes in the situation at the wall and continues his search for information that may help mankind's battle against the dead.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Samwell I</p><p> </p><p>“Corn,” called a dust-covered child. His left eye was blue, his right a rotting hole. The candle’s flicker caused an illusion of movement within the socket. Something writhed just beneath the darkness, but Sam could not bring himself to see if it was a worm or something worse. Best to assume the light was playing tricks. The maesters would say it was a twitch, some subcranial movement of muscle, unintended and unstoppable. </p><p>The child had appeared out of nowhere, as though placed by the taunting acolytes.</p><p>“Snow,” he cried. His voice was a dull blade caught in its sheath, metallic and burdensome. </p><p>He ran out of the small chamber that had become home after the successful acquisition of two links. Sam followed. There wasn’t time to grab the tallow candle on the grainy sill, so he stumbled through darkness. The child’s footsteps sounded peculiar, like rats scurrying through a musty cellar. </p><p>Oldtown was often damp, but the Citadel stayed dry through meticulous design. One could not risk damaging millenia worth of knowledge. Instead, shingles were coated in wax and angled downwards; a nearly innumerable number of gutters directed any trace of liquid from the towers towards the channels carved into the hills. <em> Nearly </em> innumerable because three maesters had counted while acolytes. Maester Kidwell had done it first, some eight hundred and twenty six years ago, finding 8,925 gutters in total. Then Maester Vypren had determined him wrong. He had erroneously counted three gutters that combined as separate, resulting in a count of 8,922. Of course, Maester Hull had calculated Vypren’s findings inexact, and declared that the three gutters that combined were still indeed separate for their most substantial parts, thus reestablishing the original count. </p><p>Pattering steps faded into the empty, black corridor. The walls began to swell, shrinking the hall with each slowed step. The air grew thick, too thick to inhale. His feet halted, but his body was too heavy for the sudden stop. He crashed down face first into the limestone. </p><p>Sam awoke with a rattled breath.</p><p>He was not in the Citadel, but in the bowels of Castle Black, where he had been for a quarter of a year.  </p><p>The raven that had once belonged to Lord Commander Mormont pecked at him. Sam brought a gloved hand to protect his face from its rapacious beak.</p><p>“Corn!”</p><p>He shook his heavy head before handing it a palmful of crumbs leftover from his supper the night before. Or had it been lunch? Three stubs of candles stood scattered around him; a fourth was half-melted as it cast its light upon the tattered page under his arm. Had they begun with his latest bout of research? <em> One for every year wasted in Oldtown. </em> </p><p>He’d have preferred to work in the warm light of an oil lamp, but glass was hard to come by at the wall. Worse yet, lamps got hot and heat endangered old texts. Instead he read in the flickering glow of broad beeswax candles.</p><p>He donned his two cloaks - one of thickspun wool and one of fur, both as black as the raven that roused him. </p><p>“Snow,” it croaked. </p><p>“Alright, alright.” Even after earning his black iron link, Sam felt uneasy when the creature blinked its massive eyes. It fluttered along the dark halls as he ascended the litany of stairs. On the sixth turn, it swooped down for the grease left in the empty wooden bowl he clutched with his left hand. </p><p>Getting to the Lord Commander’s Tower would mean a walk through the snow. That was more dreadful than the nightmare child’s haunted eye socket. Sam had known cold in his first year at the Wall. Or at least, he thought he had. This made that feel like Summer in the Reach. Beyond the Wall was worse, he knew. How Gilly and the other wildlings had lived like this for so long seemed a mystery even the citadel could not solve. Out there, massive drifts swallowed men and horses alike, gulping them up as soon as they strayed from the ploughed path. Dark skies denied the sun any warmth but for a few hours in the middle of the day. Biting winds stole noses, ears, or any fingers that strayed from the safety of gloves. It was almost always snowing - thick grey skies pierced by twisted black trees in the day and so heavy with clouds in the night that even the moon could not shine through them.</p><p>The thought of Gilly twinged his heart and scoured his throat. She was in Molestown now, close yet oh so far. Sam had originally intended her to stay indefinitely with his lady mother in Horn Hill, but the wildling woman would have no part of it. When he’d written of his upcoming journey north, she convinced Lady Tarly to get him to come home for one last supper. He had, and in the morn child and mother hid in the covered wagon that took him to the port. Jon allowed her to see her true son in secret once per moon, but he had little sympathy for Sam’s lovesickness.</p><p>The heavy door barely moved against the bellowing gusts begging him to return to his reading. Sam shoved a shoulder into it, but it barely budged. The snow had piled up in front of it again. New recruits shoveled and swept the training yards hourly, but nearly a foot of heavy, wet white had fallen since whenever they had last done their rounds. He kicked his boot out to clear some room, but the layers of stockings and leather were too broad to fit. His foot was wedged. By the time he wriggled it free, metal scraped stone beyond the oaken frame. </p><p>“Sorry, Maester,” called a recruit whose voice had not yet dropped. </p><p><em> I’m not a maester. </em> He pulled his cloaks around him as the door swung open. The boy who cleared the way could not yet be fifteen. Sam didn’t know this one’s name yet, but his olive skin suggested he may hail from Dorne. He stuttered a rebuttal before wandering off in the snow. Sam’s lungs were a chimney, breaths puffing out in massive clouds before him. Any other Lord Commander would have let them use the damn tunnels, but not Jon. Flakes fell softly, patternless white spots dancing upon cold grey winds.</p><p>The wooden stairs creaked beneath his weight as he neared the Lord Commander’s Tower. </p><p>Jon opened before he knocked. </p><p>He had changed while Sam was away, or perhaps the Citadel had simply taught better observational skills. The sullen boy who questioned his place in the world was no more. In his absence stood a man who struggled to keep bitterness from taking root, a skeptic who stared off into the snowy forest to the north and calculated the days until their defenses would be challenged by death itself. Grief was only an early battle in the war of loss.</p><p>“Another night in the vaults.” It wasn’t a question. “Anything new?”</p><p>Sam shook his head. The room was cold enough to chill his face and numb his nose. Only embers remained in the fireplace behind the Lord Commander’s back, glittering red in the cold black ashes.</p><p>“There must be <em> something </em>. What are we missing?” It was rhetorical, Sam knew, though he had half a mind to repeat the points he had made near daily since returning to the Wall.</p><p>Jon parted the heavy grey curtain to eye the training. Two recent recruits, both dispatched by Stannis after their houses refused to acknowledge his kingship, swung slow strikes at one another. Edwyn Stout, the secondborn son of Goldgrass, shouted at them to move their swords faster. Sam wondered how long they had been out this morning to be so encumbered.</p><p>“Have you eaten yet?” Sam asked, helpfully. “Everything is clearer with a full stomach.” He wondered what time it was. Might there be an egg and some beans with which he could break his fast? Jon sighed and palmed Longclaw with his left hand. The blade had worked as well as dragonglass on a dozen wights a week prior while on a trip to the weirwood grove. <em> That news ought to count as something </em>, Sam thought. It supported the descriptions of dragonsteel’s effects during the Long Night. That might have given him hope if they had any concept of how Valyrian steel was smithed in the first place, but they did not. Sam had learned much in his brief time in the Citadel but nothing regarding reanimated corpses or their destruction. Castle Black’s library seemed the best hope. Maesters, lord commanders, and even many brothers had described their time at the Wall; some had to have written something useful. Wherever those accounts were, Sam had not yet found them.</p><p>He had even gotten Cotter Pyke to send the tomes kept at Eastwatch By the Sea on the off chance a clue somehow dwelled there. A third of the dozen he sent were destroyed in the journey and the other eight were useless. Two were just lists of provisions brought though the Bay of Seals and most of the rest were full of irrelevant information regarding the design of their ships or copies of unanswered letters sent to the king. One had been a recipe book. Sam gave that one to Trynt Mallard, the stout, hoary man who ordered brothers to chop onions and peel potatoes in the kitchens. He hadn’t appreciated that, and Sam was fairly certain it wound up in a particularly gritty stew soon after.</p><p>The thought of the kitchens caused his stomach to growl. Jon almost laughed as he clasped Sam’s shoulder through bulky layers of fabric. “No sense in putting off your meal any longer.” His dark grey eyes seemed hollow in the cold white light that filtered through the windows above. “I need you to write to Stannis again. I can draft it, but something from you might be of more value. Stannis is a reasonable man, it is my hope that a learned man like you might connect with him.”</p><p>Sam didn’t think Stannis to be reasonable at all. His love for the Lord of Light had rattled much of the North, and his acquisition of Winterfell after the ousting of the Boltons had been done with little respect for the old houses. There were even rumors that his young, sickly daughter, who lived at Eastwatch by the Sea with her mother, would be his ultimate sacrifice to his foreign god. The sorceress who used to guide his hand had not left the Wall in over a year, but it was said she corresponded with him through messages decoded in flame. </p><p>He realized he had not answered and awkwardly asked what he ought to include.</p><p>“The same things as every other letter. We desperately need more men, and not just as punishment for his opposers. The dead will be here soon, in their hundreds and in their thousands. In truth I do not think he will care until they claw their way through his gut and turn his hands as black as their own.” The image roiled Sam’s stomach… just in time for breakfast.</p><p>“I’ll write him after I eat. Want me to bring you anything? Even a Lord Commander’s got to eat.” Jon’s mouth formed a straight line in response - better than a frown, but still not an agreement. “I <em> will </em> tell you when I find something.” He tried to sound reassuring, choosing his words carefully with ‘will’ and ‘when’ rather than ‘would’ and ‘if.’ Jon nodded and followed him out into the courtyard. </p><p>The snow and its glare stabbed Sam’s eyes like a needle upon a seam. He sucked in a breath but the cold air hurt his teeth. After a moment, it faded to calm white and he could again differentiate up from down. Fat flakes fell fast, forming a layer of cold fur on everything in their path. Sworn brothers young and old were about, some repairing gaps in the wainscotting, others thumping their dulled swords upon padded rears and bare faces. <em> At least maesters don’t need to fight. </em></p><p>The shieldhall was mostly empty when Sam arrived. He shuffled to the hearth and warmed his plump hands upon its bounty, slowly peeling off the doeskin gloves when he finally felt assured that his fingers would not freeze and shatter. </p><p>“Will you be eating, maester?” asked a dark haired youth nearly a full head taller than Sam. Upon his nod, he scuttered back to the kitchens and returned a moment later with a horn of mulled wine and a stale bowl of bread filled with white beans, bacon, and thin-sliced garlic. The shields above called out, engulfing his attention before he could thank him.</p><p>What had happened to the men of the Night’s Watch? Gone were the days of powerful houses sending their younger sons - now they sent them off to die for whichever latest king promised them titles and lands. Even with Stannis Baratheon’s unyielding sentencing of the defiant, the Wall had barely 1,000 men. There were some wildlings who had joined their ranks, but that brought the number up by fewer than two hundred. The Crown had sent a small batch in the months after Sam, Maester Aemon, and Gilly sailed south, but half had died in the weeks following. Now that Winter had come, it seemed unlikely that anyone but the most traditional Northern houses would brave blizzards and ice to die for the realm. </p><p><em> Mudd, Burley, Teague, Uffering, Poole, Crowl, Trant. </em> Those were the first he recognized. Others were harder to tell, paint too close to woodtone that had faded into splotches of brown on brown. The direwolf of house Stark appeared the most, or at least the most that Sam could see in this lighting. A white moon on a black field over green trees - House Fell. Checkered silver and gold… <em> Underhill? No. Underton? No. Overton. That’s it </em> . When had last anyone from House Overton stood upon the Wall? Surely a century had gone by. Sam had gazed upon these shields for years, yet he found new sigils with each glance. <em> Done are the days of glory through selflessness </em>, he thought bitterly as he shook the crumbs off his hands and placed the drained horn upon the table. </p><p>The air was just as cold outside as it had been when he’d left the Lord Commander. The courtyard was much the same: the latest batch of men Stannis had sent were muttering as they scooped snow into massive barrels to be melted for bathing, young and old recruits sparred with dulled blades, and everyone seemed chilled to the bone. Everyone but the Red Woman.</p><p>Something about her sat uneasy in Sam’s plentiful gut. Her face was pleasant - a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a pointed chin, all well-positioned and well-suited for one another. Despite the freezing weather, she never wore more than a light dress with a deeply cut bodice. Faultless, buoyant breasts pressed against the fabric and strained the seams. Long, flared sleeves ought to suck in icy winds, yet she wore neither gloves nor scarf. Her blood red hair fluttered in the breeze but never blocked her view or tangled itself. <em> If something appears perfect, it is anything but, </em> Marwyn the Mage had told him. <em> And so it must be with this paragon of lust and beauty. </em> </p><p>She turned slowly to meet his gaze, eyes of flame pouring into him. A shudder sounded through his body before he shuffled off to the bowels of Castle Black to return to his studies. Jon had commanded him to return to the Wall before the battle with the dead, an event he seemed sure would fall upon their doorstep each following day for nearly a year. And so Sam had given up his dream and left the one place he found any real meaning, the one place he belonged. The promise of returning to finish his studies warmed him more than any horn of mulled wine ever could. The answer lay somewhere, doubtless in the hundreds of books remaining below the winding stairs.</p><p>The table was exactly as he had left it, scattered with candle stubs, texts (some useless and some more interesting), parchment, and a few crumbs. Breakfast evinced the alchemy of turning food into vigor as he returned the two unnecessary books to their shelves and dumped an armful of new chances onto the bench. Stannis’ letter would wait an hour or two. Perhaps Maester Osgrey’s records from 98 AC housed their missing piece.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: So, so, so sorry for the delay! Sam was harder to write than I expected and I ended up spending a lot of time changing the future story details to make it make a bit more sense. I have another (much longer) chapter almost ready to go; I’m hoping to edit and post it this week. Hopefully after that, my writing pace will be a little more reliable. I appreciate your patience and am excited to keep this going.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Arya II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arya spends time at the inn while finalizing her strategy for the journey north, but unexpected news tempts her to discard her plans for something more urgent.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arya II</p><p> </p><p>The old window in her room at the inn let in a strong draft. It shook as ice and wind beat the glass, rattling loudly against a wooden frame. </p><p>Arya rolled over and hid her face in the scratchy wool of her cloak. This was her third morning at the crossroads. It was well past time to head north. There was no warmth in the straw she had chosen over the obvious comfort of a featherbed, and she knew it would be best to get on with it.</p><p>Her underclothes and linens were still damp despite their temporary home next to the dwindling fire. <em> I am Arya of House Stark. The blood of the First Men runs through my veins. </em>Sometimes the reminder made her feel warmer, as though her body recalled its purpose with each acceptance of her lineage.</p><p>Gendry was waiting for her when she descended the stairs.</p><p>He would never admit to it, she knew, but he sat alone with two wooden plates and looked to her the moment she passed the beam that would have blocked his view. He said nothing in words, but the softening of his jaw and brow greeted her silently.</p><p>There wasn’t much food with which to break her fast - a heel of hard brown bread and a mug of thick ale warmed over a fire. Gendry looked embarrassed at the offering, but Arya didn’t care. They had managed hard boiled eggs and salt beef her first morning and porridge with bits of a dry pear yesterday, She took the ale first, savoring the way she awoke as it made a warm path down her throat.</p><p>“The Brotherhood should bring more soon,” he muttered to no one in particular. “We’re overdue for the better things - sugar, cheese, better ale than this piss.”</p><p>“It’s alright.” The bread took ages to chew, but at least it did not taste of mold. </p><p>“Last time there was a bushel of apples and some turnips. Sometimes even jams to keep their teeth in their skulls.” He tilted his head at the whirlwind of children’s limbs careening towards the fireplace. </p><p>“Where does it all come from?” The Riverlands lacked the agricultural potential of the Reach - summer was the only reliable  time for growing here. Heavy autumn rains rotted roots and blocked the sun. They might have managed sufficient funds to trade for supplies if the majority of the inn’s guests were paying customers instead of destitute children. Gendry looked to his own mug at the question, as though an answer would bubble to the surface.. She responded for them both. “Stolen. How noble.” In truth it didn’t bother her as much as she let on, but he had prattled on about the feats of the Brotherhood for her first two nights and a disillusionment was overdue.</p><p>He glowered at her, lips pressed tightly together over his square jaw. <em> So he isn’t proud of </em> everything <em> they do, after all </em>. His mouth barely opened as he replied, “Stolen from lords who hoarded their larders while common folk starved.” His love for the brigade worried her, and that worry that began to feel more like revulsion with each new piece of information. How many corpses had she passed dangling by their necks on her way inland? It wasn’t just miserly lords his brothers saw to, no matter what Gendry claimed.</p><p>They sat in stubborn silence for a moment, until the Bull abruptly stood up and shifted the entire table with the motion. The bench scraped terribly against the floor, carving a fresh scar into the floorboards. They both pretended not to hear. Without a word, he sulked off to pour himself into whatever he banged away at in his forge.</p><p>“Don’t mind him. He’s just got hot blood, that one.” Jeyne dropped a peeled and boiled egg into the bread in Arya’s hand. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that.</p><p>“Always has,” she grumbled in response before biting the egg in half. Jeyne’s thin mouth pulled into a flat line as she smoothed the hair of an errant child by her side. “Where’d your husband go?” Marlyn had stayed at the inn only the first day and his absence aroused suspicions in Arya’s gut. He had seemed kind enough, if not a little simple, but first impressions were trivial.</p><p>Jeyne sighed and sat down where Gendry had been moments before. Arya wondered if the bench was still warm. </p><p>“He doesn’t tell me much, and what he does tell oughtn’t be shared.” Her dull brown eyes focused on a deep crack in the table. “Some business. But he’ll be back soon enough, and with some grain for this lot.” As if on cue, a child with a head full of blonde curls leapt into her lap. She unsnarled one of them and smiled across the table. Arya wondered if he had lice. Surely outbreaks were commonplace here. </p><p>With a nod, she left the thin woman to tend her gaggle and headed into the refreshing cool air. </p><p>Horse nickered softly when they saw each other. Even after a few days’ rest, her ribs formed hills against her skin. Arya ran a hand over them and loosened a slipshod braid left by one of the brood. How could Horse go another 300 leagues? She’d need to leave her before they got too far north, and then she’d need to find a town where the mare was more likely to end her days in a stable than a bowl of stew.</p><p>A steady ringing came from the forge but she ignored it. Horse gobbled up some oats, her thick lips tickling Arya’s palms. If she was truly to further delay their travels, she’d better take her out for a short ride to stretch her legs. <em> Horses are like people </em> , Hullen had once told her when she visited the stables as a child, <em> you’d be no good sitting in your room all day and neither are they. </em> It was strange to think of him after so long. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bleeding out in a pile of hay at The Red Keep. She pushed the memory from her mind and tied her hair to keep it from her face. The grains hadn’t been a full meal’s worth and this seemed as good a time as any. The faded red blanket she had left her with was coated in dirt and straw, but Arya didn’t need it for a short ride. She guided her from the stable and swung her right leg across Horse’s back. With a pat and a scratch, they trotted from the makeshift stable and out into the weald.</p><p>Dried leaves the color of mud and cinnamon crunched beneath Horse’s hooves. Some forgotten place deep in Arya’s heart remembered a similar sight in her childhood, only hand-length needles of pine and bloodred weirwood leaves piled where there now laid maple and oak. Horse picked up speed. Arya gripped her mane and leaned forward. The passing trunks bled into one another to form a sea of browns and greys. The coppice spread out like fingers in snow, freezing rain slipping through the widening gaps between the trees. A lea lay to the south. It was perfectly preserved as though embalmed. Long blades of grass bent like sculptures in a glaze of rime. Nearby, a massive downed tree wore a thick coat of clear ice.</p><p>She dismounted but kept her by her side. The pack had been loud last night; no sense in offering up Horse like the sacrifices her ancestors had made to their gods. Her own gods, for a time. Her sigh formed a light cloud of steam in the heavy air. The skies had stopped draining for now, but they were still filled with heavy, grey clouds. </p><p>Two main options remained for her trip north. She could either ride the whole way, trudging horse after horse through heavy snows and chilling cold, or she could ride back the way she had come and try her luck getting a ship. The road had seemed the most sensible way when she’d swum the icy Bay of Crabs - no one would be sailing to Eastwatch by the Sea until spring unless they were delivering men to take the black. The more she imagined the journey by horse, the less plausible it seemed. She’d need a garron if she hoped to get past Barrowtown, and even that would need to be fitted with spikes and to stick to a ploughed road. She’d need to find a farrier to get spikes onto hooves and she’d need to switch horses every day or two to get there within the year. If Gendry weren’t so damn stroppy, he’d have made a decent travel companion. He could forge the caulkins and shoe the horses, and he could even earn them some extra coin smithing while the garrows rested for the journey. But he <em> was </em> stroppy, and even a more agreeable man would never accompany her to the Wall. </p><p>Horse let out a neigh and chomped her teeth. Something in the bosk made her nervous. Arya looped her leg over the mare’s ribs and seated herself for the ride back to the inn.</p><p>The forge was empty by the time she had locked the shack. The flames were out, but heat still rose from the ashes like desert sands in early night. She went back into the inn to get a mug of ale.</p><p>“We thought you’d left,” Jeyne exclaimed. The more she spoke, the less Arya liked her. </p><p>“Still here. What happened to the children?” Two took turns carving figures into the floor planks and a few more were slumped against the tables, but most were gone. </p><p>“They’re playing in the river, m’lady.” Arya brushed aside the honorific like a fly in the air. It was too cold today for anyone to be in the icy waters, let alone small bodies. She told Jeyne as much and peered out the thick glass window. They weren’t <em> in </em> the river, but they were next to it, a stumble away from its treacherous pull. </p><p>“Is Gendry with them?”</p><p>“No, m’lady, he’s gone for a lie down. Said he didn’t sleep well.” This was the second time she had called her that. Not once in the first few days, and now twice in as many minutes. Arya gave her a copper for the cloudy ale and headed up the stairs.</p><p>Her room was not empty.</p><p>“What are you doing?” </p><p>Gendry was seated on her bed, most certainly not asleep. “You rode off. I figured you were gone.”</p><p>“And forgot all my things? That still doesn’t explain why you’re sitting in my bed.” He rolled his eyes before uttering an excuse.</p><p>“I thought you might have a map.” The words were short and embarrassed, “Thought I might figure out where you’d gone.” </p><p>She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Accusation was easier. “Does the Brotherhood want a ransom for me? We’ve seen how that turns out.” He sucked his teeth in dismissal. She sat down an arm’s length away. “Well, no need to send Dondarrion and his drunken priest yet. The horse needs a few more days before I can ask her to trudge through snow.” Her ale was cold and oddly mellow.</p><p>“Beric? Beric’s dead. Has been for years.” That was… surprising. There had been branches heavy with corpses on her journey west, the forked lightning of Blackhaven carved into dark bark beside their swaying, bloated bodies. The memory heated her blood.</p><p>“Who do you lot answer to, then? Who determines who hangs and whose larders flow to this inn?” His hand was still smeared with soot as he took a sip from a waxed cornet. </p><p>“Our leadership is… complicated.” The pause between the final two words made her skeptical. His eyes flickered towards her for a moment but quickly returned to a crack in the wall in front of them. “The only decisions I’ve made are what to smith or who to let stay in the inn. Even as a knight, there is no authority.” The hair on his temples moved slightly as he pressed his jaw shut and swallowed hard.</p><p>Perhaps she had been wrong to think him blind to the Brotherhood’s deeds. He had to know of more corpses than those she’d seen recently. Gendry had always favored realistic justice - where did slaughtered villeins and serfs fit into that outlook?<em> By what right do I lecture him on morality when I spent just as long serving the House of Black and White? </em> </p><p>Now was her chance. </p><p>“Come north with me. You’d have far more agency on the road than you do under the thumb of the Brotherhood.” His eyes were sunlit waves from the shore, enticing blue that promised adventure and escape if she could just get to them. He sighed as he met her gaze, then closed his eyes for a breath.</p><p>“I cannot be under their thumb when I am a part of the fist.” She opened her mouth to respond, but there was little left to say. He had made his choice when he’d knelt for Beric’s blade and risen a Knight of the Hollow Hill. It was foolish to think a few days changed that. They sat in silence for a moment, avoiding eye contact without diverting their view. </p><p>“Besides,” his tone was lighter then, as though he’d shrugged the conversation off like a heavy pack, “I’m not built for a Northern winter. The snow we’ve got here is more than enough for me.”</p><p>She laughed aloud at the idea of winter in the Riverlands being anything but mild. “We have snow in the summer, too, you know.” It had been a foolish notion that he’d join her. He’d stay here, or he’d go off with some passing woman who caught his fancy and smith in whatever place she came from. Come spring, or whenever the Brotherhood dissolved, he’d end up somewhere sunny and warm. Their fates were not the same.</p><p>“Does Jeyne know who I am?” She couldn’t get the barkeep’s change in tone out of her mind. </p><p>He guffawed, as if it was more absurd than her being nameless for three days.</p><p>“No. Told her you went by Weasel, though. Like in Harrenhal.” </p><p>She raised her brows at the memory. “I’ve used plenty of names since then, you know. Cat, Salty, Nan, Beth, Mercy-” she stopped listing them when he twisted his face at the last name. </p><p>“Mercy,” he repeated in confusion. He said nothing more, though his face showed clear disapproval.</p><p>“Not my best, I admit. Still, they’re all better than <em> Weasel </em>.” He shrugged and took another drink of whatever was in the horn. “And that doesn’t solve why she’s calling me a lady.”</p><p>He stood up and walked towards the door, his long legs reaching it in just two steps. “AllI said was that you’d gone home. Doesn’t take a maester to put a horse, good health, and having a home to go back to together.” </p><p>She interrupted him before he reached the handle, “But you’re in good health and you’ve no lordship.”</p><p>Gendry considered it for a moment before shrugging and turning his head towards her. “Suppose Mott must’ve fed me good enough.” His lips tugged into a smirk as he waited to open the door until he’d finished, “Now come on, Lady Stark, let’s see if there’s something to eat.”</p><p>--</p><p>Morning came quickly the next day, its orange rays shoving their light through heavy grey skies. Her clothes were drier this time, no doubt because she had spent most of the day before indoors. Her head, on the other hand, had not improved. Each pulse beat harder, a wartime drum that she could not omit from the world.</p><p>With food in short supply and little else to do, she had spent most of the evening before drinking. It started with ale - Gendry suggested another cup each while Jeyne finished whatever watery stew she’d been cooking. Then another, when dinner brought little comfort. The Heddle girl had even joined them for a bit, proving her worth when not asking unnecessary questions. Eventually she’d remembered a cask of Dornish wine that Anguy had hidden in their stores long ago, though she’d only had a sip or two before retiring for the night to tend to her wailing babe. </p><p>By some miracle, Gendry had put aside his impatience for one evening and proved himself a decent marra. </p><p>It all came back to her when she saw the ash across her right thumb. He had taken her to the smithy to exhibit his recent projects. A bizarre, uncharacteristic disappointment had washed over her when he proved the excuse for their isolation was not a clever ploy to get her alone. Some part of her had hoped for something else. At least she could now take comfort in the knowledge that that part was buried deep within and was only made vulnerable by drink and good looking men. Nothing of the sort had taken place, of course. He’d simply shown her a few swords, spears, and shields of his making. Maybe there’d been some armor, too - she couldn’t remember. What she <em> could </em> remember was that it was all quite good - much better than the swords he’d made in Harrenhal or his namesake helmet. These were art, crafted by skilled labor as opposed to stubborn hammering.</p><p>Afterwards, they’d occupied the space between sips with tales of their years apart. Gendry had not sired any of the endless cavalcade of children, but he knew most of their names and stories. The old dog had no name and had been left by a roving septon who’d died in an attack by the very men she’d free with Jaqen H’ghar. Arya found herself mildly startled at the growing temptation to say something - anything really - about where she’d been. Instead, she listened and put effort into making sure her eyes sparkled with intrigue while suppressing the strange urge to answer his questions.</p><p>The swollen moon was beginning its descent by the time she’d returned to her room alone. Its milky glow bathed the world in blue light and invited temptations she’d have preferred to keep buried. The intentional sorting of her belongings set her mind right. A long-sleeved woolen tunic that smelled of cattle (the best thing she’d stolen off some towheaded mason’s chair in Wickenden) found its shape in a soft folded square. A dozen finger-length draughts clinked together until she wound a cotton rag around them like swaddled infants. Needle slid back into its sheath and returned to its home within the green blanket. The order steadied her mind’s swimming enough to lie down and attempt sleep.</p><p>With the memories of how she’d spent the night before finally clear, she felt foolish. The lust had left in her slumber, but a different sort of throbbing had moved upwards and taken its place in her head. The freezing rain must have returned some time before dawn; its icy knuckles rapped at her window like gulls pecking at an oceanbound sailor’s bread. </p><p>Seagulls had plagued <em> Titan’s Daughter </em> so long ago, back when Salty had laughed and taken in the breadth of the sea in naïve awe. Their names stood strong in her mind - Yorko and his father Ternesio -  but their faces had faded to blank, unshapen clay. Yorko had worn a crown of brown waves, but had his nose been broad or aquiline? </p><p>Sleep took her before she could remember.</p><p>The sun was high behind a blanket of clouds when she awoke. </p><p>Most of the inn’s children were huddled inside by the fire, tugging each other’s hair or wrestling on the filthy floorboards. The flipping of her stomach made her grateful to have awoken too late to break her fast with whatever slimy eggs or hard bread remained. Instead, she walked to the steaming river and rinsed her face. </p><p>The water was gelid. </p><p>Cold seeped in through her skin and left her in a strange shudder. She did it again. Two more splashes froze her head and stomach until she felt nearly herself. </p><p>Her hair was plastered to her neck, so she ran a palm of water through it and braided it back. Nothing was as annoying as hair stuck to day-old sweat. The water was cold and revializing as she cupped some in her hand and swallowed.</p><p>A peal chimed high and clear from the western side of the inn. Gendry was at work, clearly less afflicted from their night than she was. She followed the sound.</p><p>The smith did not hear her approach despite the cracking of ice and gasping of mud beneath her feet. The fire in the forge was small and cast a weak warm light upon the floor beneath his anvil.. He wore a faded brown woolen jacket, its hood covering his forehead and hair with shadow. His neck jutted forward to view his craft, lining his eyes and brow up with a beam of dusty light that fell from a crack in the roofing. With his hands black from soot and his eyes faded to a glacial blue, he looked like one of the Others from Old Nan’s stories. </p><p>She shook the thought away. Old Nan was surely dead, just like everyone else, and her stories had died with her.</p><p>“How long have you been standing there?” His voice was rough this morning. Mayhaps he felt those drinks after all. She didn’t answer. “Still in one piece, I see.”</p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>She sat on the rickety oak bench and watched as he pumped a strange leather and wood apparatus into the flames for a while. It wasn’t clear what he was making. Something smaller than a longsword but similar in shape. A shortsword or very long dagger, perhaps. The work became his entire focus. He plunged the metal into the flames and let it heat for a moment, then hammered the other side. The process continued for ages, but somehow it never bored her to watch. Heat, hammer, heat, hammer, heat, hammer, measure, heat, hammer, heat. Gendry pulled a massive steel vessel at least four feet high out from beside the forge. He reached in and let a handful of sand fall through his fingers before inspecting the glowing blade. Arya hadn’t never known sand to be an ingredient in smithing - she’d always thought it was just lots of fire and hammering eventually quenched with water. The metal hissed as loud as the Trident as it plunged into the bucket.</p><p>He glanced at her with confusion before finding something larger to work on.</p><p>A rack of swords stood against the wall. She had looked at them the night before but they truly shined in the daylight. Arya rose and inspected them closely. There were doublehanded long swords, curved backswords, and half a dozen differentiations of grooves and grips. The second one she picked up fit well in her hand. The balance felt right, at least to her. She tossed it to her right hand, then back to the left. “Do you actually know how to use all of these?”</p><p>Gendry scoffed at the question. “Do you?” He muttered as he started shaping something around the curve of the anvil.</p><p>“Show me.” She pushed his hammer up with the tip of the sword. “Come on. You must have some skill with a blade. Show me.”</p><p>He didn’t laugh as he looked at her. “You want to spar against a man twice your size... using live steel? You must not value your time in the world of the living.”</p><p>“Should be easy for you, then. Besides, you’re barely a foot taller - certainly not twice my size.” The mud swallowed her feet whole as she walked to the open yard. It was small, but it would do. When she looked back, Gendry was shrugging off his jacket. </p><p>“Not with that,” he said loudly as he snatched the sword from her hand. “Here.” A dull practice sword fell before her boots. “I’ve given my share of lessons,” he said as he tilted his head towards the inn. <em> Of course he has </em>, Arya realized. The inn wouldn’t last a year if the children couldn’t defend themselves on their own. She wondered if the blade that had fit her grip so well was made for a greener fighter than she’d realized. How foolish she must have appeared swinging a child’s weapon through the air. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”</p><p>Sleet poured down upon them in grey sheets. He readied himself in an awkwardly wide stance, like he thought the sludge beneath his feet would betray him if he stood normally. </p><p>Syrio Forel had taught her to water dance long ago, but it was the Faceless Men who had taught her how to really fight. Gendry gave every incoming blow away with a shift of his wrist. His strikes were like splitting wood: all force and follow-through with little strategy. She danced away from his swings easily, each landing right where she had been before he could adjust for her new positioning. Though her sword’s handle was slippery with mud, she kept her grip tight on the metal.</p><p>“You’re too big for that sword,” she said, half-taunting and half-serious. “You’d be better off using an axe or a warhammer. Maybe a mace.” It was true despite her tone. Even Gregor Clegane had wielded a sword, but the thing had practically been a flattened lance. An axe would complement his strength, a hammer his long reach.</p><p>His brows pressed down hard over his eyes as he jabbed the dull blade towards her. It took her two steps to keep up with one of his, but what he had in size he lacked in speed.</p><p>“We didn’t all grow up with a master-at-arms,” he huffed as he sliced. </p><p>She parried the swing with an upward twist of her wrist. The impact brought a shiver up her arm and into her lungs, knocking her breath out in one grunt. </p><p>“Oh yes, how could I expect a smith to know his weaponry?” She ducked a high blow and stepped back when she saw his weight shift. “Are you ever <em> actually </em> going to hit me?” That irritated him. He swung hard, feigning an upwards strike before coming in forcefully from the right. </p><p>“It’s not a fight if you run away the whole time.” The tip of his sword grazed her side, but he brought it up and tried to wedge it beneath her arm. She exhaled hard as she bent back to keep her body away. It was an unconventional method, but it had nearly gotten her. He worked at her left side for a moment too long - slicing the air up and over. They were going in circles. She focused on a tear in his tunic to stop herself from feeling dizzy.</p><p>She pivoted quickly, her sword still pressed against his to stop him from slicing through her while her back was turned. He kept moving forward and caught her leg under his. The mud slid beneath them and threw them onto the cold, wet earth. She pointed her blade down as they fell in a desperate attempt to stay upright. Though it stabbed through the frozen layers, it could not keep its grip. Gendry caught himself with both hands, his sword discarded beside them.</p><p>For a moment they froze. If this became a grappling match, she would lose. No strategy could out maneuver him from beneath his weight. As she thought of how to escape, she looked at his face for an indication of what he’d do next. He was only an inch or two above her as he reached for his sword. His head was turned to her left, his perspective focused on getting his weapon back. In all the years she’d remembered his face, she’d always imagined his mouth wrong. It was fuller than she remembered when it wasn’t flattened into a grimace. Were his lips rough like his hands, or soft like her own?</p><p>They were both.</p><p>It took only the slightest lift of her head to bring her mouth to his - she hadn’t even realized it happened until she felt him turn back towards her.</p><p>He pushed his weight up fully and looked at her for a moment, then brought his face back down.. </p><p>Arya had done this before, but never as herself. First with Raff the Sweetling, but she had barely noticed it in her rush to kill him. The next had been a sandy-haired teen close to her age, too drunk to pretend not to be embarrassed when she pulled away.  The last was a Summer Islander who frequented the brothel. That kiss had been the best of the three. Each time she had been someone else, Mercedene for Raff, then the visage of a young Tyroshi with high cheekbones and a heart-shaped mouth for the others.</p><p>This time she was just Arya. That made things different.</p><p>Gendry’s defenses had lowered. He wasn’t worried about their sparring and his hand dropped the hilt of his sword. She grabbed it from him and pressed it against his throat.</p><p>“I win.”</p><p>He made that stupid face he made when he thought too hard. In the space of a blink, he got off of her and wiped the mud from his knees before silently heading back to his precious forge.</p><p>Arya wiped down their weapons with a rag that had been discarded on the bench. What happened now? She had seen the way he looked at her - eyes darting to the side when she turned towards him, a lingering moment behind her, intently staring directly through her rather than meeting her gaze. <em> Men who try not to be seen looking are the ones looking closest </em>, Isabel had told her. Yet here he was, more interested in working metal than in the woman that had just kissed him.</p><p>Neither of them spoke. Gendry tossed more wood in the fire. A piece bounced off of the corner of the trough built into the forge and clattered loudly on the ground. He ground his teeth and ignored it, then turned his attention to the nearest thing in sight. His brow furrowed as he feigned interest in measuring the blade on the anvil. He thrust it into the fire and sucked his teeth that nothing was sufficiently hot a moment later. The flames had barely reached the bark around the smallest log. Arya failed to bite back a laugh.</p><p>“Why are you still here?” He barked without looking at her. “Don’t you have other people to bother?”</p><p>For a moment she was back in Harrenhal, storming out of the hot forges. She was not so shortsighted now.</p><p>Arya shrugged. “No one interesting in there.” He finally looked at her, his face scrunched in disdain.</p><p>“Interesting?”</p><p>She stood up and took two steps forward. The heat of the fire was building now and she could feel it dry the rain on her face.</p><p>His eyes went anywhere else. How could a man grown be disquieted by so simple an act? Something wicked inside of her enjoyed the power. </p><p>“I knew you’d be easy to distract.” </p><p>Another step forward.</p><p>As if to prove her wrong, he put the sword back into the fire. He tried thrice to fit it into the perfect spot in the hottest embers before turning towards her. “So that’s what that was? A distraction?” The words flew from his mouth like a curse.</p><p>Two more steps. He was just over an arm’s length away. </p><p>Gendry straightened defiantly and held his head higher, but she noticed he did not move away. He was just as easy to influence as any other man. She nodded and felt her left brow twitch slightly.</p><p>“An easy one.” Her voice rang strangely in her own ears. “If you want, I can show you again.” He stopped avoiding her gaze. A thick black brow flickered just as hers had. “So you can practice how to defend against it, of course,” she added.</p><p>Two more small steps. A heat washed over him and darkened his blue eyes.</p><p>And then it was happening again. It started innocently enough - just his lips on hers, then a hand upon her face, then another on her waist. They were too close to the forge, but its warmth was intoxicating against the heavy frozen air drafting in from outside. He pulled away long enough to remove the sword from the flames, but was back on her a moment later. </p><p>There was less thinking in kissing than she had expected. Every head tilt and tongue movement came naturally, like it was carved into her bones and flowed through her veins. A heat rose from deep within, just below her gut, and burned hotter when his hands shifted to pull her closer. She wondered what he would do if she were to untie the belt knotted at his waist and slip a hand beneath his shirt. The leather was rough in her palm as she found the ligature. She loosened the first loop with ease-</p><p>“If m’lady finds out about this, she’ll order you dangling from the trees.” A man was in front of the forge. Probably Marlyn, by the way his mouth sounded full of cotton when he spoke. </p><p>They separated. </p><p>It wasn’t Marlyn, but a lean redheaded man missing two of his front teeth.</p><p>“When did you get in?” Gendry asked through heavy breaths. Arya heard horses nickering and the fracas of men discussing which boxes to bring in first . They must have arrived with the supplies. She didn’t wait for the stranger to answer.</p><p>“Who will?’” So Gendry <em> was </em> married. Or at least had someone who’d be angry with him for kissing her. She looked at him for a moment, then back at the figure standing in the mud.</p><p>“Who’s askin’?” The man’s regrowing beard was a darker shade than his hair. It looked as though someone had cut his face with a thousand tiny blades. </p><p>“I’m a friend of the Brotherhood.” She said, stepping forward. She pushed the disgust from her mind as his eyes lingered while looking her up and down.</p><p>“Aye, I can see that much. Don’t look like no whore I’ve ever seen before, though.” He wore a brown leather arming cap and a stained wool cloak. The strings of the cap were tied so tightly that his chins looked doubled despite his small frame. “Thing is, we don’t keep friends - just brothers or enemies. And you don’t look like no <em> brother </em> to me.” He stretched out the word while his eyes ran over her again.</p><p>“Harys.” Gendry stepped forward to her left. His voice sounded like a warning, but the thought of him trying to protect her stirred up anger in her blood. </p><p>Coinage beckoned from her room. Silver would grease all but the most stubborn of wheels. “I’ll give you a stag for a name. Two, even.” </p><p>“To know the Hangwoman?” Arya nodded. “M’lady has many names. There’s some what call her the Silent Sister. To others she’s known as Mother Merciless. Most in these parts know her by the name Lady Stoneheart.” Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t known for her kindness. Arya turned her head to stare accusationally at Gendry. His face was twisted in discomfort, his mouth pushed to one direction while he clenched his jaw. </p><p>“There is no House Stoneheart. Surely this Mother Merciless has a born name.” Gendry sighed loudly at her probing.</p><p>Harys stepped close and lowered his voice. “Aye, she did once.” His breath reeked of stale brew and rotted teeth. "But it’ll take more than two silvers to learn it.” </p><p>With his guard lowered, it took only a single movement to twist him into her grip. He struggled against the crook of her arm and the scalding hot sword that had been tossed aside earlier now hovered above neck. “Alright! Alright! Where’d you find this one, Gendry?”</p><p>“A name.” She held the blade closer still. Something about his contorted face eased her disappointment with Gendry’s lies.</p><p>“It’s said she was born Catelyn Stark. Or, Tully, I mean.” Each word took up an entire breath. “Then Stark. She wears the fish Riverrun sewn upon one breast and a bleeding direwolf on the other.”</p><p>He dropped to the floor like a sack of wheat. The metal hilt burned her palm and the slippery glaze frozen over the ground threatened to send her careening down as she sprinted, but she ignored it all. <em> It can’t be true </em>. Her mother was dead. She’d seen it all in her sleep; a wolf pulled her bloated, lifeless body from a river after Robb’s massacre of a wedding. It had told her all she’d needed to know at the time, but if it was truly just a meaningless dream…</p><p>Heavy steps thundered behind her as she pulled the drawstring bag from a secret pocket sewn into her discarded cloak. Gendry had followed her back to the inn. He said something but she ignored it just as she had the burn on her hand. It took only a moment to tie the blanket roll shut and don her cloak and scarf.</p><p>The stairs blurred beneath her feet as she ran to the cart full of food. A wheel of wax-covered cheese, salt cod, two bags of oats, some carrots, and a few potatoes would be enough. She tossed a few coins to one of the men unloading it and headed to Horse. Gendry was close behind her.</p><p>A coat of ice nearly an inch thick covered the ground by the makeshift stable. She’d need to walk the mare out to prevent her from breaking a leg. They could follow the tracks from the wagon. From there, she’d figure something else out. It couldn’t be that hard.</p><p>Gendry was shouting something now but she still paid him no mind. Horse shrunk back in the shack, afraid of the commotion. She shushed her and unclasped the door.</p><p>“Arya!” It was quieter away from the din of yelling children and drinking men. Gendry gripped her wrist to hold her still.</p><p>“Let go,” she hissed through her teeth. </p><p>“You don’t know where you’re going or what you’re doing... or who you’ll find.” </p><p>His grip was steel. “Let go,” she repeated, “Or I’ll break your arm so well you’ll never smith again.”</p><p>He did as she asked this time, his hand hovering between them like it had nowhere else to go.</p><p>“Don’t do this again.” She could feel the frustration radiating from him in waves. “I - I’ll come with. I’ve been to their depot before. And… and I know the Brotherhood. I <em> am </em> the Brotherhood. If you just wander into their camp, they’ll kill you.”</p><p>She turned back to Horse. “I’m not concerned with that. I can find my own way.”</p><p>He said her name one once more. Softer, like he knew he’d never say it again. “You can’t take your horse. They’ll track you faster that way. We can go on foot.” </p><p>She smoothed back Horse’s mane. “Make sure they feed her. The little ones can ride her, but I won’t be blamed if anyone gets a hoof to the head. And you can’t eat her if your delivery runs late.”</p><p>“I’ll tell Jeyne before we go,” he agreed. </p><p>“You’re not coming with me.” Just a day ago she had imagined him joining her for the voyage North. The irony was not lost on her. That was before she’d learned her mother still breathed, before she’d known he’d let her believe she was alone in this world.</p><p>“I am. Go get a sword from the smithy. That spillikin won’t be of any use where we’re going.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: Two chapters in two days! I’ve worked on both of these while I had some time off recently, so I certainly won’t keep this pace up. The Gendrya chapters are much easier to write than other POVs, but I’ll put some effort into getting the next one done. As you may see with the pattern that is starting here, the first chunk of this story is going to alternate between Arya/Gendry and other characters to get a sense of what has changed in the realm over the years. The next chapter will be in King's Landing, but we’ll be back in the Riverlands very soon.</p><p>And yes, I know the whole sexual-tension-during-sparring thing is cliche, but what else do you expect from a fanfic about an assassin and a smith?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Gendry I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gendry and Arya make their way to the Hollow Hill.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gendry </p><p> </p><p>The world had somehow turned into a triad: endless grey above, deep greens around, and wet brown below. Each step upon the forest floor felt repetitive, like they’d just walked the same stretch back and forth for days. If he wasn’t certain that the sun was still rising in the east and setting in the west beneath the thick blanket of cloud, Gendry might have considered it a real possibility. </p><p>Two nights had passed since they’d left the inn. Arya hadn’t said a word to him since she’d returned from the smithy with a sword on her hip. She hadn’t fought him off, though, and that was the only thing that would have kept him at the crossroads. </p><p>He’d tried to explain, laying out the fact that her mother was not the woman she thought she was. A shell without the crab, a skin without the snake - hollow and dull in appearance with nothing but a light memory of her former self. The similarities ended there, unless he’d missed that crab shells and snake skins were filled with seething hatred. </p><p>On top of all that, he had a sneaking suspicion that their approach would be considered an ambush. How could they explain that he’d harbored Arya fucking Stark at the inn without alerting anyone? Surely they’d expect him to have done whatever it took to deliver her like some pig to market. He could not. Not to Arya.</p><p>He occasionally considered apologizing, giving some speech on why he hadn’t told her and why she should reconsider. But each time he gathered the breath to do it, she’d look at him with an angry glare, and that would set the anger off in him, too. They walked in silence, instead, both radiating disappointment and distrust.</p><p>His mood might have improved faster if he didn’t feel a distinct need to atone for his discomfort. If whatever had happened before Harys arrived had stayed tame, he could have just shown her the way. Instead, she’d raised the stakes with what she so casually referred to as <em> a ‘distraction.’ </em> Now the idea of anyone else from the Brotherhood finding them made his face feel warm and his stomach sink - what would they think? He’d be at fault, that much was clear. </p><p>Why had she elevated things? He’d have been fine with whatever was going on before that - a few lingering glances, raised desire the night he’d shown her the forge, a little coquettish banter. <em> I am no less guilty </em>, he supposed. He’d been the one who took the bait the second time, pushing her against the warm stone wall and letting his hands wander. </p><p>He swallowed the memory down with a dry mouth. Thus far, he’d done well enough to resist the temptation to remember what he’d felt beneath his palms. It was best to focus on the path ahead, not to get dragged down in past stumblings. He’d taken them a strange way - mostly in an attempt to avoid the possibility of anyone thinking they’d been doing something they shouldn’t, but partially because he really didn’t know this route.</p><p>A full year had passed since he’d last been to the Hollow Hill, and that had only been the third time he’d been there at all. Whenever anyone had business for him, they stopped by the inn. The last time he’d gone was when Lem asked him to help move a massive tree felled by ice and heavy winds. His plan was to take them slightly off-course until they walked directly into the camp, but that was proving difficult. It was a four-day ride to get there on horseback, and that was following the Blue Fork. On foot, it would take much longer. He’d hoped for a week, but it was difficult to estimate. </p><p>His stomach knotted up as he imagined Harys getting there first, reporting what had happened. They’d never gotten along well - what would stop him from claiming Gendry had run off? He’d told Jeyne he had to help Arya, <em> Weasel </em>, with an errand. It was a sorry excuse at best. Brothers usually stayed at the inn for a few days to refresh, drink, and sleep off any chills they’d caught on the journey east, but these things were never set in stone. Gendry could at least take solace in the fact that Harys had no lead on who Arya was. That much was clear from the way he’d stared at her like a hungry mutt before a butcher’s shop drooling under salted hams. Even he never would have suggested the daughter of Lady Stoneheart could be a whore. Still, her reaction to the name must have set off some sort of curiosity in the small man’s even smaller brain. Gendry had never liked him well enough to learn if he’d be the sort to run back when he’d seen a troubling incident. </p><p>Perhaps it troubled him more than it did others. He had no explanation for the way he’d acted, the brazen transgression against a highborn. <em> This is how men die </em> , he reminded himself, <em> pretty highborn girls with beckoning eyes and no accountability </em>. The thought made him angry again. She had started it. Both times. But he’d be the one feeding crows once someone found out. </p><p>He was no stranger to what would have happened next; clearly she wasn’t either. She’d begun undressing him in broad daylight...</p><p>There was little mystery to lust. He’d felt it plenty before: a heat that spread from the lungs outward to the flesh. He’d first experienced it with a random guest at the inn. She’d been strikingly beautiful, with deep brown skin and bouncing hair that twisted and turned down to her back. <em> Lenora </em>. Later, Lem claimed he’d seen her working at a brothel near Fairmarket, but roving whores were few and far between and she hadn’t charged Gendry for his fumblings. They’d stayed locked in her room at the inn for nearly a week, and in that time she’d taught him more than he ever knew there was to learn about the acts he’d always assumed to be simple.</p><p>Another time, Anguy had woken him in the night during the fourth day of a torrential storm. “No bloody women here,” he’d muttered as he laid down beside him. The memory should have bothered Gendry, but hands were just hands in the dark, and they did the job as well as any woman’s mouth or body. It wasn’t as though there had been any emotion, just a surprise in the night and a few strokes of the archer’s hand. </p><p>Jeyne was the most recent, long before Marlyn had joined the Brotherhood and put a baby in her belly. That had been the most confusing for him, for the lust was grown out of grief. The day prior, they had both held Willow’s shuddering body as she passed, her life slipping from her corpse and dissolving in the air like one of her orders. They’d never spoken of it afterwards, but it had happened all the same. That had been over two years ago. </p><p>There might have been more if he lived during any other time. If he’d been born just a few years earlier, he might have worked his way through women and brothels like Greenbeard and Dennet, or even the older apprentices in Mott’s shop. Instead, he’d come of age when half a dozen men wanted to be king and bandits took advantage of the fragments left between the cracks. It didn’t bother him as much as it might - he knew a respectable trade and wasn’t bad at it, there was a roof over his head and usually something warm to fill his stomach. <em> More than most can say. </em> Those things were worth more than the freedom to fuck as freely as he pleased. Two women was reasonable, even if he’d like to forget one of them had happened. It was all just lust.</p><p>Only Arya was different. There was something beneath the lust. Her lips had melted away a weight he hadn’t known he carried. Some part of him wanted so badly to follow that progression and see what else he might feel if he tapped some stubbornness from her with another kiss or, potentially, something more.</p><p>Soldier pines, oaks, and a few dead weirwoods rose above them like mismatched giants, their limbs creaking and swaying in the hard winds. The icy rain had stopped for the full day, but downed branches and decayed stumps cluttered the forest floor. He wore a heavy bundle of swords strapped across his back, and they shifted uncomfortably as he twisted to avoid knocking his knee on a jutting arm of pine. The blades seemed a decent excuse if they were found - it ought to seem reasonable that a smith would bring weapons to a customer whether they were found by friend or foe. He had no preparation to explain Arya’s presence. Surely she could figure that one out on her own, or disappear long enough to avoid questioning. </p><p>He’d been so close to finishing a sword for her. It would be done now if she hadn’t decided to go on this damn journey. The blade itself was built: a good, balanced thing that ought to be just shy of a longsword in her hands. Only the finishing remained, and he’d already planned what to embed in the steel. Now it sat abandoned in a cask of sand like some long lost buried treasure. He hoped none of the orphans at the inn discovered it for their own amusement.</p><p>The sun was beginning to set, its rays bathing grey clouds in deep shades of orange and pink. It was safest to stop at night. Thus far, they’d split their watches. One person stayed awake on duty until their eyes got too heavy and they awoke the other for some rest. Of course, Arya’s decision to not speak to him made that difficult in practice. He’d taken first watch each time, sure that she’d be stubborn enough not to sleep at all rather than have to open her mouth to say something. This morning, he’d thought that might change by nightfall. He was wrong.</p><p>They came across a small clearing just after the warmth of the sky had faded to dusty violet. Boulders of a height with saplings lingered near the edges; deep green pines standing as straight as sentinels lined the rest. The corpses of thorn-laden weeds folded over one another and rose to his ankles. <em>As good a place as any</em>. They had Arya’s riding blanket, faded green wool that ought to be thick enough to stop any errant barbs.</p><p>If she wasn’t talking, neither was he. He shrugged off his pack and untied the swords across his back. A quick stretch of his arm and roll of his shoulder flooded blood back into his back. Arya eyed him suspiciously before setting her things down near his. He’d convinced her to leave some of the contents of her saddlebags (mostly warm layers for her journey north), and just carried warmer clothing, a few knives, and half their food. She withdrew salt cod wrapped in linen and a loaf of very stale bread taken from the inn before it had cooled. There were oat cakes, cheese, apples, and a little cured ham left, but he didn’t ask about them. If she was saving the best for her future travel, he wouldn’t fault her. </p><p>A chunk of bread flew through the air. He caught it and looked at Arya in appreciation. She didn’t look away, but instead met his gaze with a cold, unimpressed expression. Some part of him sank in disappointment. <em> Everything was going fine until she found out </em> . But the twinges of regret were drowned by a sea of frustration. What was he supposed to do? Tell her that her mother had been revived as some monstrosity that seemed more demon than woman? <em> Good to see you again. By the way, your mother’s just a few days west. Why don’t you go watch her dangle innocents from trees because they dealt with Freys in the last decade? Don’t mind the scars, they add character. </em> The whole concept was absurd. </p><p>When he looked up again, she was gone. Off to piss or mayhaps just to stare angrily at the forest... whatever it was women did when they were vexed. He focused on chewing the cod (not nearly as edible in this dry state as it would have been flaked off into warm, moist fishcakes), and wondered what they were up to back at the inn. </p><p>Arya returned an hour or two later, only to promptly unfurl her blanket and lie down to sleep. He’d sit down beside her, but the tension was still too thick to approach whilst she was awake. The moon was still in its first few misshapen days of waning. He looked at it for a while, hypnotized by the way it illuminated strips of obstructing clouds with its argent light. Ribbons of dark clouds danced their way across the silver light like overly decorated swords amidst banners at a tourney. They came and went, shifting until a larger shield of grey pushed ahead of them all and blocked the moon from sight. </p><p>He tilted his head back down to scan the clearing. Arya was asleep, curled beneath her cloak and facing away from him. </p><p>He wasted time as best he could. Thrice he circled the forested area, all the while listening closely for any sounds of other humans. An owl hooted rhythmically and some small creatures rustled around in the boughs of pine above. Upon completion of the third round, he sat down on the blanket. Arya had positioned it before two of the larger boulders, which meant for a more comfortable seated watch. Had that been purposeful? </p><p>Ideally, he’d use this time to think about all the work that waited for him at the inn. There were plenty of blades that needed repair, a few piles of sheet steel and even two ingots of copper for new smithing. The door to the larder was always getting stuck and could use sanding and perhaps new hinges. The window in the eastern-facing room upstairs needed insulating; in the spring it could use a new frame all together. Most of those children were behind on basic swordplay lessons. What had he taught them last? </p><p>Arya stirred in her sleep and turned in his direction. She was good-looking when her face wasn’t intent on showing how angry she was with him. He’d never agreed with everyone who’d called her plain when they were children, even when her hair had been a disheveled mess sticking out in every direction or when she’d been caked in dirt and mud. No one could call her plain now. She’d grown into her face: long but balanced by even lips, skeptical eyes, and a straight nose. He might have complimented her if she stopped irritating him with her stubborn silence. </p><p>The idea of staring at her would have seemed odd if he didn’t know she did the same to him. He’d only seen her do it twice, but there were plenty of times he felt her gaze without catching her in the act. Even when she seemed disinterested, he could swear there was a layer of want, however thin, buried beneath her stare. <em> Or perhaps I only see what it is I want to see,</em> he reminded himself.</p><p>He walked around the glade to clear his mind. </p><p>The wolves were loud as ever as they howled to their pack across the forest. He wondered if their call brought any comfort to Arya, or if she had outgrown her love of her house’s sigil. </p><p>Another hour passed before he found his steps wavering and his mind fogging with exhaustion. <em> It must be halfway to morning by now</em>, he reasoned.</p><p>Arya was confused when he gently tapped her shoulder to wake her. After a few seconds, her heavily-lidded eyes opened properly and she propped herself up. “Your turn,” he said quietly as he laid down in the warm area she had left on the blanket. Sleep washed over him before he remembered he was supposed to be as silent as she was.</p><p>He dreamt of rivers swollen with spring rain and fruit so fresh that it dripped down his chin with each bite. When he awoke, the morning felt especially cold and the bread harder than ever.</p><p>Halfway through the day, they came across a troublesome sight in their southern view.</p><p>Two corpses swayed beneath a bending branch. The birds had made fast work of their eyes and their faces were as grey-blue as storm clouds. Something was carved into the bough above them. He sighed loudly at the display and wondered if he ought to suggest Thoros find them to perform their last rites. Of course, Gendry wasn’t fully sure of what those last rites were, not with a drunkard as the only Red Priest he’d ever known.</p><p>“Can you read?” Arya asked suddenly. It was not the breach in silence he would have predicted.</p><p>“Yes,” he shot back immediately. It was only half a lie. He <em> had </em> been able to read back when she’d first known him, but he’d fallen out of practice. </p><p>Tobho Mott had hired a reading tutor for him in King's Landing. An old man in stale-smelling robes brought him into the small office behind the forges and made him review his letters and read aloud from <em> The Seven Pointed Star </em> thrice a week. On the other days, Mott had him read out requests for new work. When he’d asked his master why he spent coin on a tutor when he took the time to instruct him on sums and figures himself, he had simply stated that the Common Tongue made no sense to him and muttered about letters changing shape on the tongue based on what followed them. For the life of him, Gendry could not remember what language Mott spoke before his time in Westeros. </p><p>It had been ages since he’d thought about all of that, and he was amazed that the memories still found a home in his mind at all. If he hadn’t been sent to the Wall, he’d probably be lead smith by now. </p><p>Arya interrupted his reminiscing.</p><p>“Is this what you meant?” He felt his mouth frown in confusion. “About not knowing who I’d find.” She looked strangely prepared for whatever explanation he had ready, though in truth he had none prepared. </p><p>“Aye.” He shifted direction to get them facing northwest again. </p><p>The forests of the Riverlands expanded and thickened like milk over flame, starting modestly near the crossroads but spreading until they boiled over in frothy roots and branches alike. It was a long distance to cover on foot - at least half-a-hundred leagues, by his best estimate. They began walking whenever the second sleeper - thus far always Gendry - awoke until something stopped them around midday, then rested for a bit. Within the hour, one of them would toss their pack back on and start walking until the other followed. By the time the western sky seemed aflame, they’d find a reason to stop for the night.. Sometimes it was a rock that had lodged in a boot, other times the emptying of bladders and bowels, though they never said what it was they were off to do when that was the case. </p><p>Today it was hunger. A hollow claw scratched at his gut, slicing past a point he could bear and digging loud enough to hear from afar. </p><p>“Here.” She tossed him an apple.</p><p>He polished it on his cloak before taking a bite. It was decent, but not so good as the fruit he had dreamt of. The sky was always grey these days, but it was a paler grey than evening. They still had hours to go. <em> At least the rain has stopped </em>.</p><p>“I see you’ve finally had enough of your silent sister impersonation.” He regretted his choice in words as soon as they left his mouth. <em> Silent Sister </em>, that was what they called the Hangwoman. He hoped it didn’t poke at the anger she’d finally overcome.</p><p>As if to spite him, she did not respond, instead staring at a tree branch above them while chewing loudly on a carrot. When it was done, she drank a few deep gulps of water and looked west. “How far do you think we have left?” </p><p>Of course she doubted their route. </p><p>“Far enough.” </p><p>Arya tore off her cloak in a single, fast motion. “Help me get up here,” she said gruffly. A large branch jutted out near her chest but the next weight bearing limb was out of reach. She pulled herself up and sighed impatiently as her head turned to the branch above, her left hand grounding her to the tree. </p><p>“What am <em> I </em> supposed to do?” It was an irritating request. He did his best to look elsewhere. There was nothing nearly as interesting. He was plenty of things, but lecherous was not among them. At least not until lately. He’d never been one of those men who leered at women and saw nothing but hips and tits. <em> Can’t you find somewhere not directly in my face? </em> He wanted to ask. But he could not; her shape wasn’t her own doing. He studied the bark on the bough she aimed for, instead.</p><p>She didn’t wait for his help, instead jumping high enough to grab the branch and climb her way up the smaller pieces on the trunk’s wide body. A moment later and she was just the bottom of her boots as they scurried up the tree like a squirrel.</p><p>Minutes passed slowly. Too many minutes. Was she stuck up there? If she was, she’d never admit it. Just as he wondered if he ought to yell or throw something upwards to get her attention, she emerged, jumping down from an obnoxious height. Her face was flushed and her hair was windblown. She looked excited.</p><p>“We aren’t near the river,” she said as though that was some revelation, “and there’s a mill to the north. Might be a good place to get warm and dry.” Gendry had never heard of a mill near the Hollow Hill. Maybe they were lost after all. “Thanks for your help, by the way.” Her tone was bitingly sarcastic but her eyes seemed full of jest rather than spite.</p><p>He didn’t wait for her to fasten her cloak or get her pack. </p><p>“How far’s that mill?” he asked when she’d finally caught up. </p><p>She considered it for a moment. “More than a day. Two? It’d be easier if you’d brought a damn map.” Where she thought the inn stored maps he had no idea. <em> Best get the orphans studying their scale and proportions for the next traveller. </em></p><p>“Anything we ought to steer clear of?” </p><p>“Some smoke the south, but nothing on our route.” </p><p><em> Smoke?</em> That was surprising. “From what?” he wondered aloud.</p><p>“Fire, presumably. How should I know?” And so they trudged through more mud and decayed leaves. The rain picked up shortly after, falling in sheer sheets of grey.</p><p>By nightfall, they were soaked to the bone. Arya gave up her cloak to cover their heads, so they huddled beneath his while sitting upon the immediately wet blanket. It was miserable. </p><p>The bread had gotten wet in the downpour, dissolving into mush the moment it came into contact with a human mouth. He let his stomach grumble rather than deal with the disappointment after the second bite. Arya took out the cheese, still dry thanks to its wax coating, and cut off pieces one by one. It was salty and sharp, but it did not fill them. <em> Here’s hoping the Brotherhood’s kept their larder full </em>.</p><p>She seemed to intentionally stay just an inch or two away, her arm hovering over their bent thighs as she passed pieces of cheese and cut into a mealy pear. Gendry was cautious not to look directly at her. They were seated so closely that the memory of their misdeeds in the forge rushed through his mind. </p><p>“This wouldn’t be so bad if it were snow,” Arya said to herself. He’d never admit it, but he was glad she had gotten over her silent spell. </p><p>“So says the northwoman,” he muttered instead.</p><p>They said little else, sitting quietly as the rain came down all around them. She was so close that he could feel her body shift with each breath. The sound blended in with the water in a quiet song. The wind shifted, redirecting from the shaking tree limbs to blow directly into their faces and lashing cold droplets along its path.</p><p>He still wore the clothing he’d chosen after their night of drinking. Why he’d thought a change in tunic would matter was beyond him. It was all soaked now, anyway. The only other garb he had was packed in his bag, but he didn’t dare expose it to the frigid spray spewing down from the night sky. Arya was no dryer, but at least she’d worn treated leathers that deflected rain like the feathers of a bird.</p><p>As though she’d heard him, she turned in his direction. There was nowhere else she could be looking, only the two of them under the tiny grey cave of a cloak. He was cautious not to look back. </p><p>“Why did you come with me?” Her voice was free of its recent tone of derision.</p><p>How was he supposed to answer that? This was the sort of thing he ought to think through before answering, a riddle disguised as a simple question. But she’d repaid his navigation of the Hangwoman with cool silence; cautiously chosen words might earn him the same. He sighed more loudly than he meant to. </p><p>“So I could be sure nothing happened to you.” It was simple and true, though not polished or well-stated. And he <em> had </em> wanted to ensure nothing happened to her. He knew she valued her freedoms and seemed a decent fighter, but he couldn’t help but feel fiercely protective of her, even when she’d ridden off for a few hours or when Harys’ eyes had lingered.</p><p>Arya turned back towards the open forest before them. “I can look after myself just fine.”</p><p>Did that mean she wanted him to go? </p><p>Words had never been his strong suit, but he did his best to choose them with caution. “I don’t doubt that.” Another deep sigh shoved its way out of his lungs. “It’s only — four years was a long time to wonder.” That didn’t do it justice. The things they’d said she’d been through, the monstrous men known for rape and brutality who were said to have forced themselves upon her…</p><p>“What does that matter?” Her voice rang defensive again. He twisted his head in her direction the moment she said it. The rain poured overhead too forcefully for him to escape by making rounds - it was time for a conversation he’d avoided since she first rode to the crossroads.</p><p>“Do you think we just all forgot you’d existed the moment you ran off? That we had some draught to wipe your memory from our minds until you decided us worthy of your presence again?” Her brows rose in challenge but she did not speak. “Do you know the things this realm has imagined that you’ve been up to while you’ve been gallivanting around? First there was the Red Wedding. I know it was a tragedy for you, and I’m sorry for what they did. May R’hllor strike them down to empty darkness for all eternity. But to them, you were just another body on the pile. A little smaller and thinner than the others, aye, but ultimately just a wolf slaughtered with the rest. </p><p>“Then, just when we’d gotten used to the idea that you’d at least died in the company of your family, we hear that <em> the fucking Hound </em> has got you. They said he had some scraggly peasant boy with him, but I was sure it was you. Harwin knew it, too. Did you think it some strange coincidence that the Brotherhood runs that inn? And we all know what the Hound liked in little ones. They say he raped his way through girls as young as eight on his march through the Saltpans, bloody demon that he was.” He knew he ought to stop there. You weren’t supposed to regale highborn ladies with tales of murdered families and raped children, not even ones as unorthodox as Arya. Still, the words bubbled from him like an overfilled kettle, spilling out after he’d meant for his mouth to stay shut.</p><p>“There were graves, you know. Filled with children, women, and withered old men alike. For a full year we thought you must have ended up in one, laid to rest amongst the corpses of the other victims of the war. Some of them thought you’d come back here... that you’d wander in with some absurd name and awful excuse for why you weren’t Arya Stark, but I knew you were gone. I didn’t harbor hope as they did. </p><p>“You can imagine my surprise when, after so long had passed without hearing your name, I learned that you were wed to Roose Bolton’s son. Some bastard.”</p><p>Her head jutted back at the name. “Roose Bolton? Why would I be wed to his line after his betrayal at the Twins? And to a bastard?” She was obviously confused but did not seem to expect any answers. </p><p>“Yes, the horrors of wedding a bastard - most shocking of everything I’ve just told you.” He hadn’t meant to be so cross, but it seemed the tamest part of the story. Arya made a face at his tone and let him continue, “Well, it turned out that that bastard - Ramsay, they called him - was a horror in himself. They say his first wife had been driven so mad that she ate her own fingers to bear the pain of his company. You were still a child, Arya. A child married to some vicious man to spite her parents’ ghosts and claim your home.” It was Harwin who had told him. He’d been so angry he’d wanted to break every sword in the smithy just to feel like he’d done something. The northman had found him out by the river, his face all scrunched to keep from screaming, hands clenched so hard they could not unfurl even when he wanted them to. <em> ‘I know, lad,’ </em> he’d said with a heavy hand on his shoulder, <em> ‘Pour it into your metal. This world is cold and your tears will freeze to your skin before they change anything. Best to not let them fall at all.’ </em>He’d taken the advice and smithed day and night for half a week, grateful for dry eyes. Arya didn’t need to know that. “They said the only sounds that came from your tower were sobs of sorrow and cries of pain. The Grey Ghost, they called you, for how you floated through your castle in a flesh gown that barely held your bones.” When he’d heard Harwin and Lem whispering about it, he’d had half a mind to take every sword he could find and march through the winter winds of the North as an army of one. In the end he’d done nothing. His heart was foolish, but not his mind.</p><p>“I don’t have to tell you that she wasn’t who we believed her to be. Turned out it was some other highborn girl of the North. Jeyne something. The daughter of a friend of your father’s.”</p><p>“Jeyne Poole?” She exclaimed in surprise. “She was always a cunt.” </p><p>“Well, cunt or not, she didn’t deserve what she got. Stannis Baratheon rode up there with half the North and smote them down while she ran to your brother at the Wall.” At least he thought that was what had happened - he’d never really understood how the would-be king and the Northern families had melded into one.</p><p>“I suppose there will be two Aryas there soon,” she mused.</p><p>“Only if one’s a ghost.” The real Arya looked at him in confusion. “She threw herself from the icy edge of the Wall. Some say she slipped, but....”</p><p>Arya exhaled loudly in consideration when she realized he was done. “Well, you can’t hold that against me. What else did they say?”</p><p>He was mildly alarmed at her casual curiosity. Years of a tense jaw and haunting dreams, just to be met with <em> that </em>. It was maddening. “That was all I heard. Once I learned it wasn’t you I figured my first assumption was right and that you’d been lost to time and dirt and ruin.”</p><p>“Hmm,” she breathed as she thought it all over. The wind shifted and shook the edge of the cloak ceiling, sending a massive splash of collected water to the ground before them. It was refreshing as it cooled the skin of his face. “None of it’s true.”</p><p>He couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling in their sockets. “Oh, really? You haven’t died thrice? How could I have known?.” She shot a surly scowl at him in response to his sarcasm. “What…” he trailed off before asking the question, “Where were you? You should have heard this from someone. The whole realm was talking about the Boltons marrying into Winterfell, never mind the Battle in the Snow. How could this all be so new to you?”</p><p>Her tongue clicked lightly as she thought about what to say. She brought her knees up against her chest and rested her left arm on them to bring her hand to her head; her right stayed discernibly close to him. </p><p>There was no reason for her to have to think about it this hard.</p><p>“Look,” he started, not meaning for his voice to sound so aggravated. When he spoke again, he tried to soften his words. “It doesn’t matter to me. Or... It does. I just… I don’t care if there are bits you think people won’t like. It can stay here, washed away in this deluge.” His hand flung into the air to gesture at the downpour around them. “And don’t think that I can’t handle knowing just because I don’t like nobles. If you were shut in a castle with some lord, that’s fine.” Why did he say that? It seemed like overcompensation, though he wasn’t sure what it was he was overcompensating for. “I just want to know that you were alright. That you weren’t starved or beaten or—” he stopped himself from the rest. Had he ever spoken so much in his entire life?</p><p>Arya smiled at that. It was a sad sort of smile, and he swore there was a hint of dolefulness in her eyes, but it was still a smile.</p><p>“Well, it wasn’t all <em> that </em>.” She drew out the last word in mocking emphasis. </p><p>A slow drip began where rain most weighed down the wool above them. She tilted her head up as though she’d be able to inspect it despite the darkness, then leaned her back so she was propped up against the tree behind them. He didn’t <em> want </em> to know every move she made, but there was no way not to with the tightness of the cloak. A few moments passed, filled only with the endless pattering of cold rain on leaves, trees, dirt, everything.</p><p>So that was it, then. The lack of answer was different from silence, somehow, though objectively they ought to be one in the same. </p><p>There was so much he wanted to know. Was anything he’d heard true? She had to have been somewhere, sheltered by some family or hidden away from anywhere where they spoke like normal people. <em> Perhaps highborns don’t concern themselves with the gossip of war and carnage </em> , he thought <em> , though it is birthed from their own quest for power </em>.   </p><p>Gendry would find out where she’d been another day. They still had at least two, probably more, until they found the Hollow Hill, and it wasn’t as though there was much else they could do to fill their time but speak.</p><p>He let his left arm drop and did not move when his hand landed over Arya’s. She stayed still beneath his touch. Her skin was soft, but not as soft as he might have expected if he’d let himself imagine it. Her knuckles were dry despite the constant downpour of water, and he was sure he felt a deep scar where his thumb landed over the outermost side. For a moment, he thought she would pull her hand away, but she only shifted it so her palm faced his. Her thumb folded against his index finger. <em> Just the way the muscles work</em>, he reminded himself, <em> no different than cupping the rain</em>.</p><p>“I was in Braavos.” Her voice was quiet.</p><p>“Braavos,” he repeated stupidly. <em> That was where Tobho Mott came from </em>. A fact he’d forgotten for so long. He’d told them all  it was a watery land across the Narrow Sea and that he’d robbed them of their finest smith when he’d sailed west for King’s Landing. What had brought her there? Was the Common Tongue known, or had she had to figure out whatever language it was that made Mott think Weteros’ speech was so odd? He wondered if she’d had some family connection there, some lord who considered himself a friend of the North. Did Braavos have lords and houses and sigils like those that dominated Westeros?</p><p>A soft presence on his shoulder brought him out of his pondering. Arya had rested her head and leaned into him. </p><p>What was the right response? He felt strangely nervous, as though he’d not spent plenty of time with women before her. ‘Before her’ seemed too dramatic. They weren’t doing the things he’d done with Lenora or Jeyne, they were just sitting in the rain. Why had he compared the situations at all?</p><p>“It’s good that you came,” she said softly. Perhaps her cold Northern heart had thawed. He let his head rest over hers in reply. He’d only ruin it all if he tried to think of something to say. </p><p>The one thing he <em> could </em> think of was a strange urge to pick up where they’d left off before Harys arrived - a temptation to turn the easy twist of his head and kiss her. But if he did that, what would happen next? It wasn’t the boiling of lust, but something stranger, like some cousin to arousal. It was to desire what embers were to flame - less intense, less dangerous, yet nearly as warm and certainly longer lasting. The feeling spread through his gut slowly, rising up through his chest until he felt a strange sort of knot in his throat. Would it cause more division? Less? A woman who turned herself into a mute rather than interact with you didn’t want you cramming your tongue down her throat a few hours later, of that much he was certain. But still, she’d initiated conversations multiple times today. Nothing worthwhile until tonight, but surely that counted for something. </p><p>By the time he’d determined that it was worth the risk, she was asleep. </p><p>He knew the rules of first watch well enough. You stayed alert until the thought of sleep became too sweet to ignore, then you woke the other to take your place. Yet, rules or not, it seemed an impossible task this night. Arya was warm against his body; her breath seemed to pull him in deeper with each inhalation. The rain beat the cloak above them as furiously as a hammer to steel. Winds whispered quietly to the trees. Sleep lured him in, warm and comfortable as a featherbed by a blazing hearth.</p><p>When he awoke, the rain had stopped and he was alone. For a single breath, he panicked. <em> What’s happened? </em> Had she run off again? By the time he inhaled the cool, wet air, he remembered the way she’d whirled around the yard at the inn. If something had happened, she’d be alright.</p><p>He stretched his shoulders to wake more fully and cracked the stiffness from his neck. The blanket was still soaked. It swallowed up his hand and flooded water to his wrist when he pressed himself up. Outside the cloak, nothing had changed. There were a few fresh looking downed branches, but nothing of note. No sign of Arya, either. </p><p>Their conversation echoed in his mind. She’d said so little, but they’d crossed an unspoken bridge. He was certain she wasn’t angry anymore, not with how she’d twisted her hand up into his. Perhaps that was why he was so unconcerned with her absence. Somehow he felt sure she’d be back. </p><p>She was. Not long after, though not soon, either.</p><p>“I thought you might not wake ‘til midday,” she teased as she came around from a tree.</p><p>He meant to respond but sleep slowed his tongue. <em> Never been one for that,</em> he would have said, <em> there’s always too much to do </em>. Instead, he just yawned. </p><p>She took off her pack. The small linen pouch of oats had gotten soaked the night before, so they ate it as a sort of cold porridge. It was not appealing.</p><p>Within the hour, they were back on their route. </p><p>The mood was lighter and Gendry was grateful for it. </p><p>Something had shifted between them. For the first time since Harys had shown up, things felt comfortable. Arya commented on things he said and spoke her observations aloud. They even continued the topic he’d raised the night before.</p><p>Large portions of the tale were missing, but he didn’t mind that. She <em> had </em> gone to the Twins, but she hadn’t gotten inside of the castle. Instead she’d made it to the camps when they were in the throws of chaos. She hadn’t said anything else about that, just that there’d been a furor and northmen killed on all ends. Some time after, she and the Hound - a man whom she bore little resentment - took her to some eastern aunt, only she was dead too. All the Starks were, it seemed.  She was strangely defensive of the decision and swore the talk of his love of bloodying himself within young girls was untrue. They’d gone to the Saltpans after the inn, so that bit had been right. Something had happened then, and the Hound had died. <em> Good riddance </em>, he’d thought when she told him. From there she’d tried to go to the Wall to find her brother. Of course, no sane sailor risked Northern seas in autumn, even Gendry knew that, and he’d never even been on a ship. So she’d gone off to Braavos instead. The rest was a mystery, just like the pieces in between. Still, he’d rather a torn blanket than no cover at all.</p><p>“About the Brotherhood,” Arya started suddenly as they crossed a small, trickling stream. “I get the purpose: protect the commonfolk the way they’re asked to protect their lieges. I have no issue with feeding the hungry with the spoils of the rich, nor with reclaiming empty or ill-used halls as shelter for those who need it. It’s the details and logistics that confuse me.”</p><p>Gendry looked at her, careful to not let his eyes linger. Her face was shiny with rain and sweat. “What details?” He asked.</p><p>She hopped across an unsteady route of moss and stone before responding, “Most of them. You are a group designed to serve and represent the people of the realm.” He nodded for her to continue. “But you were formed by noble men - not you, obviously,” <em> Obviously </em>. “Nor Jack nor Mudge, aye, but Beric and Thoros were both King Robert’s’ close friends and allies. How does that fit in with a disdain for highborns?”</p><p>The path she had taken was treacherous beneath his feet. “It’s not highborns we hate, but the ways the rest of us are expected to serve them.” He wasn’t sure why he had said ‘them’ and not ‘you.’ “Why should the farmer owe tax to his lord when he did not ask to be born upon that land? When it is his back that breaks to till the soil and his hands that bleed to pluck the harvest? What does his lord do to merit payment?”</p><p>Arya shrugged. “A good lord ought to keep his farmers safe, plan contingencies for bad planting years, distribute bounties and products... That’s worth the price of taxation.”</p><p>“And what <em> good </em> lords are left?” His voice rang bitter in his ears. He expected her to bring up her father, though he was long dead. Harwin had often claimed House Stark was good to the North, but they still sired bastards and feasted throughout the winter years like all the rest. Mercifully, her lips did not part to respond. “Every house thinks itself uniquely kind and gracious, yet they all pile their tables high while their working people starve.”</p><p>She nodded as though she understood, though he doubted she ever could. </p><p>“I suppose you wonder why we go through the trouble of keeping the inn.” </p><p>Arya shook her head and frowned. “Not at all. That makes sense on all levels. The number of orphans and lost children grows with every battle; it’s good that they have somewhere to go away from... less savory parties.” He wondered if the thought made her sad. If an inn like that had existed when they’d escaped the burning barn, maybe they’d have avoided Harrenhal all together. “And you can earn good coin with the spare beds and any smithing requests,” she added.</p><p>He was not some smith for hire. “I work for the Brotherhood, not for any fool with a coinpurse.” Her eyes widened in a purposefully exaggerative response. Gendry focused his gaze forward, towards where their seemingly unreachable destination ought to be.</p><p>“And what about your clothes?” He didn’t look to see if she made a face, though he imagined she was mocking him. All the clothing he owned was crumpled up in his pack or on his body - the grey spun cotton tunic he’d yet to take off since dressing the morning they’d sparred by the forge, an undyed woolen top that he’d packed in anticipation of cold nights, the threadbare doublet of coarse brown floccus, dark cloth pants that laced up the middle and hadn’t fit properly in years, the cloak they’d shared the night prior, and two belts - one of old rope scraps tucked away in his pack and a wider one of brown leather that tied his shirt tighter to his frame. He had plate armor, too, which he’d carefully crafted himself. That was left hidden in the smithy at the inn. There was no sense in lugging it across the region and he certainly wasn’t going to risk it rusting away in the rain. “Do they find that in larders, too? Or is there a tailor among your ranks these days?”</p><p>He scoffed at the thought. “Some things they find and disperse amongst whomever it fits best.” That had been the case for his jacket. It was snug under his arms and left his wrists bare, but it fit him better than it did the others. “Jeyne alters them and makes something new if they find fleece or fabric.” </p><p>She stopped walking and turned to him suddenly. He let himself look at her face again, surprised to see a wicked glint in her eyes as she raised her brows. “She’s seen you naked,” she said, her words half laughter and half judgment.</p><p><em> Of all the things to take issue with… </em> “So have you,” he pointed out. He’d not thought anything of it back then, but the memory seemed humiliating now. </p><p>“When we were children. It’s different as a man grown.” He had never been naked for the times Jeyne measured the length and width of his legs with a cord of yarn, but he had been the time they’d awkwardly awoken and realized their backs had been pressed together overnight. When the memories of how they’d arrived there struck, he’d hastily dressed and returned to his bed in the forge. She’d not seen him in the flesh before or since.</p><p>“Only highborns are discomforted by nudity,” he insisted. It was true in some ways.</p><p>Arya found some humor in that. “Not me.” She looked strangely proud of the statement. “Flesh is flesh -  it holds no value but that which you give it.” He’d repeat that to himself the next time she unknowingly presented her own flesh in front of him like she had in that tree.</p><p>For the next hour, the only sounds were those of the forest - birdsong, wind through wet leaves, and occasional trickles of brooks.</p><p>At midday, they ate a few bites each of carrots and the bland oat cakes. It was not filling. Gendry found himself imagining what foods might await them in the Hollow Hill. Potatoes baked with garlic, crusty loaves of bread, trout caught fresh from their journey down the Blue Fork, onions cooked until they turned soft and sweet.</p><p>“Why didn’t my mother go North?” Arya asked him when they’d begun walking again.</p><p>“What?” He sounded like a fool sometimes. </p><p>She faced him as she asked again. “When she learned that I’d been married to Roose Bolton’s boy. You say she’s changed and that she’s been twisted with time, but wouldn’t a twisted woman have put an end to all that?”</p><p><em> Oh </em>. So she was ready to talk about her mother. He found his way around a large boulder before he answered, ignoring Arya’s irritating need to clamber over the thing. “No one told her.” She opened her mouth to ask why, but he cut her off, “It was Harwin’s call. And a good one.”</p><p>Her eyes widened. “Harwin? He’s still with you lot?” She seemed thrilled by the idea. “I know Beric’s dead. But who’s left?” She worked her way through some mental list of the brothers she remembered. “Thoros?” He nodded. “Anguy?”</p><p>“Left for a bit with the change in leadership, but he came back.” He’d forgotten the archer had left their ranks until she asked about him. “Came back within a month. Turns out there isn’t much else to do with no coin and no liege.” Arya nodded as though she knew what he meant.</p><p>“Edric Dayne? What about Ned?” He resisted the urge to mutter something about her unnecessary excitement. Of course she wanted a highborn to be waiting at the Hollow Hill when they arrived.</p><p>“Gone.”</p><p>Her face fell. “He died? How?” And she was sad about it. Of course. </p><p>“Not dead,” Gendry clarified. He ought to have left it where it was, but some part of him seemed more interested in keeping her informed than in his own self-preservation. “He stayed on for a year or two with…” he couldn’t call her <em> The Hangwoman </em>in front of Arya, could he? “With Lady Stark.” Oh no. Arya was Lady Stark, He needed to think of something else. “But he ran back to his castle soon enough.”</p><p>“Starfall.” That meant nothing to him. She must have figured as much, because she shook her head and explained that it was the home of whatever high and mighty line that blonde twat came from. </p><p>“Sure. Well, don’t know what happened after that. I’d imagine he’s married with a brood of towheaded, perfectly proper lordlings by now.” He looked a little too long to measure her response. She seemed more annoyed than entertained. Was she annoyed that Ned was gone, that he’d bred some family, or that Gendry somehow had revived a gudge he’d forgotten about for nearly half a decade?</p><p>The conversation paused as they crested a hill. Once they’d taken in their surroundings, she asked about the others.</p><p>Lem, alive; Beardless Dick, useless but still drawing breath; Jack-Be-Lucky, missing an entire left arm yet somehow alive; Tom, dead.</p><p>“And more I’ve not met.” It wasn’t a question, but he treated it as such anyways. He listed the newer recruits as he remembered them: Torrence, Hough, Strongfoot, Allyn Carring, Allyn Montey, Braddock, Flynt, Harys—</p><p>“Harys,” she repeated. “That’s the one from the inn.” He nodded, though he wasn’t sure if she saw the motion. “The one who…” <em> The one who has more teeth than he does common sense or respect, and he’s got few of those, </em> he wanted to say. The memory of his unabashed lewdness towards Arya boiled his blood. “Who interrupted us,” she finished.</p><p>Gendry had hoped they’d just avoid any mention of that incident. He muttered a sound of agreement and forced his mind to focus on a gnarled tree root rather than the memory of what Harys had seen.</p><p>“What do you think would have happened if he hadn’t?” He felt his face flush at her question. What would have happened? <em> What a question </em>. She’d been untying his belt when that clod showed up - next would have been hers. Surely they’d have thrown themselves into his small cot and fucked themselves hoarse, or perhaps they would have composed themselves enough to get upstairs in the inn and make good use of the massive strawbed in her room. He shook the thought from his mind and avoided her gaze. </p><p>Arya stopped walking and shrugged off her pack. He thought she might search for her water, but instead she looked at it, picked the whole thing back up with one hand, and wandered off into the weald. </p><p>“Where are you—” she was out of sight before he could finish the question. </p><p>If she was stopping, then he was too. Gendry carefully leaned the swords against the widest tree and filled his hand with the contents of his waterskin. He hoped the cold splash upon his face would wipe his mind of the images he’d thought up when she’d asked that absurdity.</p><p>There was little else to do while he waited for her to come back from whatever it was she was doing. He wandered off and pissed, then came back and used the whetstone in his pack to sharpen each of the swords.</p><p>He’d just finished tying the bundle shut again when Arya returned. Something was different - she’d tied her hair differently so it sat high above her head rather than in the braid she’d kept since her arrival. It suited her. But there was something else, too, some look of determination. </p><p>“Ready, then?” He asked as she approached him quickly. She didn’t turn to rejoin her path, nor did she seem to realize that she was headed straight towards him. Instead, she dropped her pack and brought her hands to his chest as she pressed into him.</p><p>Her lips met his in a satisfying crash. </p><p>The kiss was so thorough that the world spun around them. The more their lips and tongues worked, the less his mind could. </p><p>He held her shoulders and tilted his head back to pry away. “Arya,” he said in an attempt to bring them back to reality. But she was relentless. Her lips met his again, and his body confirmed the decision for him. It wouldn't be worth the effort to stop this even if he didn't want it so badly. </p><p>And oh did he. </p><p>Her hands made quick work of his belt. She pressed freezing cold palms upon the skin of his chest. </p><p>After a moment, he sank down to sit upon the massive weirwood roots winding through the earth. The soggy leaves below them harbored a chill like metal held a night’s frost, and the trees above offered little shelter from the freezing rain, but he did not protest her removal of his jacket. He tried the same to her shirt, but the ties that laced her leather jerkin shut had frozen solid. He chuckled against her lips as he tried to untie them. It would be faster to tear the thing apart, but he could not deliver her to her destination half-naked. Instead, he cautiously tugged at the string. It would not give. She directed his hand beneath the material, instead, cupping a hand of perfect soft flesh beneath the cold barrier. </p><p>Her lips parted to laugh when his fingers found her nipple. </p><p>He laughed with her. </p><p>It <em> was </em> funny, in a way. Funny that they’d decided this was right. Funny that they hadn’t taken advantage of the beds at the inn, funny that they’d sat just a foot apart in her room and in his forge without giving into the urge to fuck one another. Funny that he’d wondered if she’d be offended if he kissed her the night before. Funny that she hadn’t spoken to him for days, only to show him she wanted him just as badly as he’d wanted her.</p><p>She fell against him as they kissed harder. For a moment, he wished they were elsewhere - anywhere where they might disrobe and properly appreciate one another. Instead, he returned her insistent roving hands and brought his mouth to her neck.</p><p>She palmed his cock through the layers of linen and wool. It was awkward and yet somehow perfect. He let himself do the same to her, savoring the way she gasped against his lips although his hands remained above the leather. They parted for a moment. Her call, not his. She stared at his bulge as though surprised by the sight.</p><p>He knew he was large; the other apprentices in King’s Landing had teased him for as much when they’d all gone to the baths together, and back then he was still half a child. <em> The bigger the cock, the smaller the mind</em>, they’d shouted. Now he was a head taller than most other men. Everything about him was big - surely it was to be expected. He tried kissing her again to bring her back to what they’d started. Her lips reciprocated his desire for just a moment, but she quickly pulled away to look at it again.</p><p>His own reflection shone back at him in her eyes, distorted in the roundness of her pupils. Behind it lay raffish excitement and no small amount of lust. Yet, there was something more, too… a sort of apprehension. </p><p>“Arya,” he asked, unable to stop himself. “You <em> have </em> done this before?” His words were sloppy, tied up in the blood stuck around his cock.</p><p>She moved back and looked at him, her beautiful face bent with offense. “What’s that got to—” </p><p>He pulled his hand off of her braccae. </p><p>She hadn’t.</p><p>How that could be true would be a mystery for another day. </p><p>He swallowed hard, willing the blood back to the head above his neck instead of the one beneath his breeches. </p><p>“What are you doing?” she asked angrily as he shrugged his doublet back over his shoulders. Somewhere deep within, his blood turned sour at her insistence, lust thinning into irritation.</p><p>“You can’t really think I’d let you do this. I.. I thought… I thought you <em> had </em> before. I can’t be the one to—” </p><p>Hers was an immediate fury, brows furrowed and mouth twisted in disbelief. “So what?!” she snapped. “No one said I had or that I hadn’t. And if I haven’t, how do I ever get to with this sort of a reaction?” Her eyes narrowed at the strained fabric beneath her palm. He moved her hand away and stood to tie his belt. “Part of you seems willing enough.” How could she not understand? “You were happy to jump into bed with your tavern wench.” <em> How does she know about that? </em> He tried to reach for her hand, but she pulled it away. </p><p>“Arya… “ Her name was a single pained breath. </p><p>If she’d already done this, nothing would have stopped him. Hell, if she hadn’t and they’d been <em> anywhere </em> but directly en route to the woman who’d hanged dozens for their grievances against her family, he still would have. He wanted it more than he’d wanted pretty much anything, but his desire to live was just the slightest bit stronger. Surely she understood the gravity of what would happen when anyone learned what he'd done...</p><p>Her disappointed expression told him she did not. </p><p>“If anyone finds out, they – they’ll string me up faster than they did any Frey.” She stood and glared at him, down at the fabric still taut beneath his waist, then back at his face. Her hair had escaped its restraints, strands falling by her cheekbones and framing her eyes. It took more discipline than he knew he had to resist the need to pull her back into what they had just been doing. </p><p>The reality must have set in, because she grabbed her pack and stormed off into the woods a moment later.</p><p>He looked at her absence for a few moments, but she had retreated deep into the trees. If he knew Arya, and he was beginning to think he did not, it would be at least an hour before she returned. Possibly a full night.<em> Could be four years.  </em></p><p>Gendry sighed and let himself remember the feeling of soft, pliant flesh within his grasp and the urging of her lips on his. His calloused hand was not the same, but it would not get him hanged.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: I am so, so sorry about a 10,000 word chapter. I said this story would be shorter. Ha. This is actually cut down. There was just so much I wanted to fit in a Gendry chapter (the next one is far away)</p><p>This was supposed to be a Jaime chapter but I had no motivation to write it, so you get this (intended for the next chapter), instead. I’ll get to that and then back to our main duo here again soon! Somehow I have 48 chapters loosely planned. (About 40 of them have outlines... please take my computer away from me.)</p><p>If you’re reading this and thinking ‘wow, there are a lot of grammatical errors,'' just know that most of them are intentional. It feels wrong to end a sentence with a preposition, yes, but it also sounds forced in my mind. Maybe that’s just the near year (!!!) of this pandemic.</p><p>Also, for a quick idea of why it takes me so long to update chapters, I spent an hour researching medieval knitting practices to find what style of woolen clothing was accurate. It turns out this is a major controversy in the knitting world? Fascinating stuff. (I also have a busy life and little motivation, but let’s blame the research.)</p>
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